


Sir, Revisited

by JaneDavitt



Series: Sir [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/pseuds/JaneDavitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A while back, I wrote a thousand words or so PWP with a nameless Dom and sub called 'Sir'. They stuck in my head and I decided to see how they met. It's a WiP; I'm adding to it when I'm in the mood, but there's 14,000 words here I'm happy with and this is part one of their story. I included the original snippet at the start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: The Meeting

Part One

"I want to fuck you, boy."

He hesitates, unbelievably hesitates, with my collar around his neck. I thought I'd trained him better than that. Eyes lowered, he murmurs, "Sir—last night—I'm still sore, Sir."

I know he is. I did it to him, after all. It's one of the reasons I'm so hungry for him now. I cuff his face, a reproof he's more than earned, and hear the soft sound my palm makes against his cheek. I could have slapped it, made the sound crisp and hot, left his cheek scarlet, but that feels too formal for this. He's my boy and I'm hard. I'm in the mood for simple. The action excites me and he responds to it, his chest rising and falling as his breathing speeds up. 

"I didn't ask a question," I tell him. "I told you I wanted to fuck you."

He doesn't reply, but there's the slightest of movements, a quiver of his lips, a hunching of his shoulders, that does it for him. They're small betrayals and they shock him as much as they annoy me. He takes the slow, deep breath I've taught him and I watch him regain his place in my world.

"I want to fuck you," I repeat. His failure's not forgotten. It'd be cruel of me to do that, leaving him hanging, endlessly waiting for a punishing hand that never fell. Hmm. It would be cruel, wouldn't it?

Not forgotten, no, but my needs come first, always, and in this moment, I'm hard and I want to come. I want to use his bruised, aching body to arouse mine, paint his skin with my spunk, or leave it inside him. 

I want him. That's all he needs to know.

As I say it again, he changes, all compliance now, eager to atone, waiting for my next command.

"Five," I say. It's the position he hates the most. He may even think it's his punishment, but it's not. I want him in that position because I like to see him strain and sweat to hold it. It's humiliating. He'd squat like that to shit, hunkered down, knees wide, ass hanging, his balls dangling. 

Tonight, he moves as soon as I've finished speaking, climbing onto the low table that puts him at the correct height for me to do so many things to him because it's built to be adjustable and flexible, just like him.

He squats, his face already red with a humiliation that's unnecessary. Humiliation is built on the scorn of others, but I don't feel any of that looking at him. He's mine, positioned by my words. He's perfect. 

I let him settle into place and stare at him, forcing him to meet my gaze until there are tears for me to look at, trickling down his face, warmed by his blushes.

When his body's screaming to move—he can't hold this pose for long, but he can hold it for longer than he thinks and I know to the second how long that is—I touch him. Rough caresses, manhandling him, squeezing and pinching his flesh, digging my nails into the puffy, swollen skin around his nipples where the clamps bit deep the night before. I run my fingertips over his thighs and feel the deep-down tremor in his muscles. 

His ass is pale, unmarked, unlike the rest of him. Last night, I enjoyed watching it clench and quiver waiting for the lash of my whip, the bite of my cane. At the end, I touched it lightly and he shuddered convulsively, sharp cries coming out of him, whining as if the brush of my hand had hurt him.

I cup his balls where they hang and squeeze them until he's grunting with pain, feel them shift and slither in my palm, then play with his hole. I poke it, prod it, stab my finger at it and tease him until his breath is erratic and he's swaying without realizing it, trying to get my finger inside him.

He's sore. He's right about that. I can feel how hot his hole is, the neat circle blurred and swollen. He had things up his ass last night that deserve better than to be called toys and he had my cock.

I'm big. He can take me, but I'm big.

"I want to fuck you, boy," I whisper in his ear and I say 'three' and push him forward onto his hands and knees, take out my cock, hard and flushed with blood, bone-dry, and rub it over his hole, sawing it along the crease of his ass until it smells of him, dark and secret smells, but he's mine and the stink of his ass, the sweat dewing his pits, the snot he's trying to sniff back, it's all mine.

I walk around the table and put my cock in his mouth, as willing to open for me as his ass.

It's not mercy or kindness. He wouldn't thank me for either.

I said I wanted to fuck him.

Didn't say where.

***

A Year Earlier

I'm trying to keep a tall stack of paperbacks from spilling out of my arms when he turns and bumps into me. I lose the top three books, watching them fall and wishing I'd thought to bring a bag. The local library is long overdue for a renovation and the shelves are too close together to make life easy for people browsing, but that doesn't excuse his lack of awareness.

We're close enough in that moment that I see him in details, not the big picture: dark gray eyes, smudged with shadows, puffy as if he's low on sleep, a patch of stubble on his chin his razor missed, a pierced ear empty of metal. I can smell him, and that has me wanting him before I've even heard him speak. It's nothing to do with washing or cologne. Some men smell right to me, and when they do I know the sex will be good.

He laughs, a nervous chuckle I'd soon train out of him. "God, I'm sorry. Here, let me get them for you."

I let him go to his knees in front of me. It's a bright spot in a day that I've filled with tedious errands. He gathers the books with hurried, inefficient snatches and fumbles that make the task take longer than it should. Long fingers, the nails trimmed neatly. The label's poking out of the back of the black coat he's wearing, his dark brown hair short enough that I can see the back of his neck. It's one of my favorite places on a sub's body. So sensitive to a light touch, reddening beautifully after a birching. The coat's expensive. He's an interesting mix of rough and smooth, this one. 

As anyone would, he glances at the titles, then tilts his head back, grinning up at me. Hell, he's snickering. "Okay, you don't look like the bodice ripper type. Is this where you tell me you're reading them for research or something?"

The cover of the top book is a rich dazzle of color and exposed flesh. The man on it has decided shirts are optional and the woman clasped in his arms is wearing a dress that's too small for her judging by the way her tits are half exposed. I shake my head. "No."

He scrambles to his feet and I bite back a sharp word. Not mine. He can break position when he wants and he's not obliged to move gracefully.

"No offense. I..." His words trail off. I think he's realized I'm not happy with him and I think he's also realized he wants me to be. 

I look at the shelf he was browsing. Cooking books. Useful skill for a sub, though I'm a meat and potatoes guy myself.

"Everyone's got to eat," he says, following my gaze.

"True."

I'm not giving him much to work with. The way he's comfortable being this close to me, the ease with which he went to his knees; they're promising signals, but I'm wary of misreading them.

He gives me a hopeful smile I guess is justified. After all, I haven't moved away. "Look, I'm about done here. I'm heading to the coffee shop next door. Want to join me? I can buy you a coffee to make up for knocking into you."

Okay, that's clear enough. I smile at him, slow and sure. "That's not how you're going to make up for it, boy."

I feel it then. It's been over a year since the last time, but it's unmistakable, that zing. From the way his eyes widen at my last word, his lips parting on an indrawn breath, it's also mutual.

"I—I don't—"

I consider him. He's a touch shorter than me, lean across his shoulders and chest where I'm broad, and maybe ten years younger than my thirty-eight. He's still holding three of my books and I wish my arms weren't full of the other four. I want to close my fingers around his wrist, cuff him with them, and see his reaction. 

"Yeah, you do," I tell him and smile as he bites his lip, then slowly nods.

Forty minutes later he's on his hands and knees in my living room, naked, his ass where I can slap it when I feel like it, or when he stumbles over a word. One of Mrs. Harrington's books is open in front of him and he's reading from it, hating every lush, lurid word. Mrs. H. is a doll. She lives two houses away and she's housebound. Most of the errands I ran today were for her, including the library visit.

I have to say, read by a naked sub, whose ass and thighs are pinking up nicely, _The Ravishing of Angelique_ isn't bad.

"'Slowly, he ran his hands over the puckered buds of her nipples, teasing them harder until they ached for the touch of his mouth. Outside the cabin, the wolves howled, but she felt safe in his arms. She told him so and he smiled wickedly, and drove his fingers into the wet heat between her legs, claiming her as surely as if his brand had been burned onto her fair skin.'" He pauses and I lean over and apply my hand, three swift, hard spanks. 

From where I'm sitting, I can see the sway of his balls, the bob of his cock. He's so hard, so desperate.

So out of fucking luck.

"I think that's enough."

His sigh of relief is heartfelt enough to ruffle a page of the book, but he's got enough sense not to comment or to move.

"Stand, get dressed, and take the books to my neighbor. Number eighty-three. Mrs. Harrington. Tell her I'll see her tomorrow."

He grins at me as he gets to his feet, triumphant and cocky. "I knew they weren't yours."

I snap my fingers and point at the floor. "Back down. This time, get up slowly. Give me something to watch."

He frowns, but resumes his position. Tabletop, they call it at my yoga class, and I'd enjoy using him as one and hearing him yelp as a cold beer bottle came to rest in the small of his back.

"Kneel back, ass on your heels. Spread your knees. Wider." It's been a long time since I taught a sub how I like to see them rise to their feet. I'm not sure if it's a pain in the ass or a thrill. Little of both. "Now kneel up. Hands behind you, right hand around your left wrist. Okay. Hold it."

I look him over, taking my time. His skin's clean of marks. I can see a small bruise on his left thigh, but it looks accidental, the kind you get after bumping into the corner of a table. He's uncut, his prick deep red and rigid, the bush of hair surrounding it a soft dark tangle. 

"Now curl your toes under and come up nice and smoothly."

He tries. The stagger and stumble tell us both how comprehensively he fails.

"Again," I say implacably.

On the fourth time, his legs trembling, his face flushed with exertion and embarrassment, he achieves something that's this side of passable.

I rise from my chair. "Barely adequate, but you're keeping a lady waiting so I'll let it go." I pause, but he doesn't start to dress. "I gave you more than one order, boy. Want me to jog your memory?"

He shakes his head. "No, I remember, uh, Sir."

I backhand him across the face, not hard enough to mark him, a contemptuous tap, no more than that. Lack of respect breeds more of the same. "Try that again and this time lose the hesitation, boy."

He looks lost for a moment, gaping at me as if that tap stung more than the dozens of hard slaps I'd scattered over his ass. "I remember, Sir," he repeats, staring down at the carpet now. "You wanted me to get dressed and deliver the books to your neighbor."

"So why aren't you doing it?"

"I thought you were joking, Sir."

"I'm a funny man," I agree. "But don't ever think I'd give you an order and not mean it."

"But I can't—" He breaks position and gestures at his cock. "I can't go like this!"

"I really don't like subs too stupid to remember what they've been told."

"Yes, you said I had to get dressed," he says and it's so close to snapping my eyebrows shoot up. "But we're in the middle of something here, in case you didn't notice."

"You're new, so I'll give you that one screw-up," I tell him. "It's the only one you get."

I don't say anything else. I've told him what to do. I don't threaten, beg, or cajole. He compresses his lips, nods sullenly, and dresses, yanking at his clothes as if he's angry with them.

I add the book he was reading to the bag I've put the others into and hand it to him. "Be nice to her," I warn him. "And give her time to come to the door. Don't keep knocking. It flusters her."

"I'll be a perfect gentleman," he says with a curl of his lip. I'd cure him of that habit too. A clothespin biting at that tender flesh would work wonders. His ass is covered, but it doesn't stop me from spinning him around and swatting his backside hard. He struggles, my hand twisted in the collar of his coat, but he's panting out 'sorry', and 'Sir, please!' after a few spanks.

I release him and nod at his hard-on. "Fasten your coat to hide it, but you don't come back in here until you're soft."

"Why?"

He's really annoying me. Only the way he closed his eyes the first time I slapped him, his face contorted with pleasure and relief, is saving him from getting kicked out. 

"You get orders, not reasons, boy."

He doesn't slam the front door, but his shoes are loud on the wooden porch as he stamps his way across it.

He's knocking on my door again after seven minutes. I give him points for escaping without being fed and watered and wonder how he explained himself to her given that he doesn't know my name.

I open the door and block his way. "Show me."

"Jesus." He opens his coat and glances down. "See?"

" _Show_ me," I repeat.

"You want me to—We're in public!"

He's on my porch, a deep porch, vines acting as curtains on the sides, the front yard big enough that from the street he's barely visible in the shadows. It's safe, but obedience should be automatic. Sure, to get to that stage he'd need to trust me, and we've only just met, but I'm still disappointed. With him, not me. 

I expect a lot from my subs. Too much for most of them.

I shrug and start to close the door. It's not a bluff, but he yelps out a protest and his hand drops to his zipper. With his jaw clenched, annoyance glittering in his eyes, he gives up and flips the button, too, then works his dick out of his boxers until it's lying in his palm, soft and pink.

I can do a lot to it when it's like that if I work quickly.

I study it. Even soft, it's big, and I know it's not false advertising. The pissy mood he's in has made me regret my decision to bring him home, though. It's been a long dry spell and I wanted the easy comfort of a session, not a struggle with someone new to the scene, weighed down with ignorance. "Nice," I offer, with enough warmth to my voice that he can't doubt my sincerity.

As I'd expected, the praise perks him up. He'd be so easy to manipulate that way. He smiles and his fingers tighten and caress.

Well, that's not going to help you, boy.

As we stare down at it, his cock stiffens and uncurls, the similarity to a flower blooming in seconds on a nature movie undeniable.

"Umm..." He laughs, embarrassed, but confident. Not how I want him at all. "Maybe we should take this inside?"

I sigh, but I don't roll my eyes. That's rude. "You had to be soft to get back in," I remind him and close the door in his startled face, then lock it.

I walk away to the kitchen to get a glass of water, and hear the slam of a car door soon after, followed by the roar of an engine as he drives off too fast.

Damn. He's not the only one left hungry. The incompleteness of the encounter itches at me and I don't even know his name, so I can curse him properly.

That changes around eleven that night. The phone rings and I pick it up, already tense. Late calls equal trouble or the annoyance of a wrong number or prank call.

"Yeah?"

"What did you do to my boy?"

The voice is male, calm, and there's an undercurrent of amusement. I grimace. Fuck. I'd asked him a few questions before he stripped, but not if he belonged to someone else.

"Not as much as I wanted to," I say, honesty trumping tact. 

"Is that so." There's a pause. "Are your ears burning? Because he's been ranting about you for hours."

"I'm flattered." I clear my throat. God, this is awkward. "Do I owe you an apology?"

"For ruining my night? Maybe, though from what he's said, Mark's the one who screwed up."

Mark. Huh. I file it away.

"That isn't what I'd be apologizing for." The word sticks in my throat. Doms don't apologize much because we make damn sure we don't do anything wrong. Too much riding on being infallible—or faking it convincingly. I don't bother asking how this guy found my number. I'd told Mark to tell someone where he was before he got in his car to follow me home. He'd sent a text, showing it to me first, a courtesy I appreciated. It'd given my address, nothing else, but a reverse look-up was easy.

"He'd kill me if he knew I was doing this, but is it out of the question to give him another shot?"

Now the guy sounds hesitant, even a little embarrassed, but that's not what has me frowning. What the hell? 

I say it aloud and add, "You're his Dom. Why would you want to send him back to me? And if you did, I'm assuming sharing's something you've both agreed to, so why let him rant when you could've gagged him and spanked the bad temper out of him?"

"What?" His voice is deep, but it goes high then. "Spanked—I'm not his Dom. Why would you—oh, _shit_."

I wait, patiently enough considering I'm out of my depth and I really hate that. I hear him take a deep breath. "I'm Dave Stanton. I'm Mark's father."

Well, at least he didn't say he was Mark's daddy, or we'd have stayed at cross-purposes even longer.

 

***

The store's quiet today. That's not unusual. I do a lot of my business online, my customers in different states, even on different continents. It's pretty fucking incredible when you stop to think about it, and sometimes I do. My armchair's comfortable, I've got a hot coffee to sip on, an old favorite to read, and my tax refund finally came in.

Life's good.

The bell over the door jingles and I glance up, telling myself it's unreasonable to be annoyed I've got a customer.

When I see Mark, I realize I don't. 

He storms up to the counter, his face so red I want to touch a wet finger to it to hear the hiss. 

"I found out—I can't believe he _did_ that—" He's stammering with rage, his body a tight, quivering mess of tension. 

"If this is what you were like when you were whining about me, he probably hoped I'd send you home with a gag in this time," I say and slip a bookmark into the paperback. I get to my feet and put the book on the counter. "You have an unusual dad."

"He's a—" He breaks off, partly because I've slapped my hand over his mouth, but I think he was on the point of censoring himself anyway.

"Calm down, or you'll find yourself looking at another closed door. We clear?"

His jaw muscles relax and there's the whisper of a 'yes' against my palm, so I take my hand away.

"He surprised me, if it helps," I tell him. "I know plenty of parents who're cool with their kids being gay, but none who'd encourage them to go back to a Dom they'd pissed off."

"We're close," Mark says. "I've got my own place, and we can go a couple weeks without seeing each other, but we keep in touch."

I don’t give him any encouragement beyond silence, but he hurries on as if he's got a set amount of seconds to bring me up to speed on his life.

"See, my mom died when I was eight so it was the two of us for years. He was more like a friend than a father when I got older and the first person I told when I figured out I was gay." Mark shrugs. "Then he found my porn and I won't lie, he freaked out."

"What happened after he'd calmed down?" I'm more curious about the father than the son at this point.

Mark laughs, more of his bad mood visibly draining. "He did what he always does when he comes across something new. He researched it. The psychology, the risks, the culture. He didn't offer to help build a dungeon in the basement, but he never told me I was sick or needed to stick to vanilla sex. Though that's pretty much what happened anyway because I couldn't find many people who were like me. And the few times I did, we didn't click so it never went far. Frustrating as hell."

He's not shy about sharing. That's a trait I like. I don't want a taciturn sub who expects me to read his mind. Of course, I don't want a mouthy one either. It's all about finding a balance. "Please tell me those conversations with your father happened recently."

He smiles, his flush receding. "The coming out one, I was twelve. The other, I forget. Nineteen, twenty, maybe."

I shudder, picturing it. "Boy, parents and sex don't mix."

"They have to, or neither of us would be here."

"Smart mouth you've got there."

"If you'd let me stay, you might have found out what else I can do with it."

"You're flirting. Stop."

He licks his lips, then presses them together firmly before speaking. "How about if I begged instead? What he asked you for…I want it too, but I can sure as hell do my own asking and that's why I'm here."

He's tempting me, but God, so much work to shape him into anything approaching acceptable. "Moment's passed. Let's watch it go."

"You don't give second chances?"

"To subs who pout and disobey me? I'm supposed to find that cute and endearing? I don't."

He doesn't let his gaze drop. "What you did to me yesterday blew my mind and driving away was like turning my back on water in the desert, but you told me to go, so I did."

"You never get points for obeying. You're expected to."

"Yeah, I guess, but I'd get negative points if I didn't."

I shrug. "If you mean I'd punish you, then sure."

"It doesn't seem fair," he says, more to himself than me, as if he's puzzling over it. He shakes his head. "I'm new to this. I guess that's obvious."

"Yep."

"But I want to try more than playing around and you're—"

"The only game in town?" I shake my head. "You're desperate and you have no standards to judge me by. I'm particular and not desperate. They don't go well together. Look, Mark—"

"Not 'boy'?"

"Not today. If you want to dip your toes in, I can point you at a place about fifteen miles south of here. A bar called the—"

"The Leather Saddle. I've heard of it. Tried to get in a few years back and they said I was too young."

I wish he was mine for long enough to ball-gag that mouth of his. I glare at him until he hangs his head and gives me a respectful silence.

"You're old enough now. Go there, Wednesday, maybe. It's quiet enough you won't get lost in the crowd. Hang out for a while, get a look around, and someone will take pity on you and spank you nicely. It's kind of rough, but unless you're there to point fingers and snigger, no one's gonna hurt you for real. Word gets out. We tend to self-police." I point at the door. "Okay, I gave you some of my time because Mrs. H says you were a polite young man, but we're done now."

"Suppose I want to buy a book?"

I nod at the door. "Out."

I can see in his eyes he wants me to make him, handle him roughly, get him hard. If he thinks he's getting anything from me I don't choose to give, he's wrong. I stay where I am and go back to reading. He doesn't exist for me. He's not my sub, he's not my slave. 

He's not my anything, and I won't be at the bar on Wednesday though I'm sure he expects to see me.

God, when did I get this fucking bored with life?

***

By Wednesday night, I've reconsidered and I call the bar. Ted picks up and I run through a quick hi, how's it going without using up much of his time. 

He's a nice guy. Not for me; he's submissive but can't take pain. I spanked him once and he safeworded by the tenth warm-up slap. I stopped spanking him and let him blow me, telling him all the way through what a useless shit he was, how he didn't deserve to taste my cum, but I'd paint his face with it. I did, which he loved, so we both got something out of it, even if the dirty talk wasn't enough for me.

I've never taken him home again for sex, but we're friends of sorts. 

"Is there a piece of fresh meat hanging around?"

"Few new faces, yeah. Why?"

I describe Mark and Ted sucks in a breath. "Oh, him. Yeah."

"What's he doing?" I ask, resigned to bad news. 

"He came in early, nursed a beer for an hour, eyes all over everything and everyone, then Bear invited him to play pool."

Shit. "Tell me he said no thanks."

"I'm staring at his ass right now as he takes a shot, so sorry, can't do that."

I want to kick something. Bear's a younger version of Father Christmas; tall, big gut, bushy nut-brown beard and twinkling eyes. Total sweetheart, but his thing's fisting, and his hands match the rest of him. Rumor has it his dick's the only small part of his body and it could be true because as far as I know, no one's seen it. He takes a sub home, ties him down, paddles his ass until it's steaming, then greases his arm up to the elbow and asks if they're still willing.

If the answer's no, he'll sigh, wipe his arm clean, paddle them again and let them go. If it's yes, he fists them and then comes over their ass. His hands are big, but it's his thing and he's careful. He never gives a sub who turns him down a second chance, but I don't blame him.

"Does Bear look interested?"

Ted snorts. "Pretty puppy drooling over his boots? What do you think? And why do you care?"

"I sent him to the bar."

"So why didn't you—yeah, I'll be there in a minute—why didn't you come with him? Too good for us these days?"

It's months since I showed up and I hear a faint trace of hurt in his voice. "Been busy."

He's quiet, letting his silence tell me he doesn't buy it and I sigh. "I'll be there soon. Don't let him do anything stupid."

"He just lost the game and he's on his knees licking Bear's boots."

I sigh again.

***

It's busier than I expected and there's a new guy on the door.

"You sure you want to come in?"

I look him over, bald head to leather boots. Big, strong, but a sub all the way. His lip's swollen, nicked by a tooth or a knuckle and I feel a tug of envy. It's been a while since I had someone I could hit hard and hear a soft, grateful gasp that goes straight to my balls.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

I don't even glare at him, but his eyes flicker and he straightens, making space for me and ducking his head as I walk by. Okay, that was a wake-up call. I've been away too fucking long if I need to talk my way into somewhere that used to be a second home.

The Saddle's a dive. It's out in the middle of nowhere, the windows are painted over, and it's a big, sprawling building that looks like one storm would blow it away. Inside the front door is a space with shelves for bike helmets—required by law now—and a phone on the wall that hasn't worked in living memory.

Once inside the bar itself, it's dark, and still smells smoky, though the ashtrays went a few years ago and the smokers have to huddle out back. The wooden floor, once painted black, is scuffed down to bare wood again in the high traffic areas. I know every table, every chair—but I see strangers here and there.

I go to the bar and nod at a few men I know in passing, getting smiles and murmured greetings, along with a couple of thoughtful stares. There's a ripple of whispers in my wake, but I order a beer from the kid behind the bar, and they die away. 

Ted finishes serving and drifts over to talk to me. "He's still here."

"I know." I can see him in the corner. He's kneeling on his T-shirt by Bear's chair, looking supremely uncomfortable and lost, and at the same time he's where he should be and that shows too.

As I watch, not hiding my interest, Bear dips his fingers into his beer and holds them for Mark to suck clean.

Which he does.

He's not the only sub on his knees or showing some skin, but he's drawing attention. New, pretty, so close to breaking... I want him and I'm not the only one, but no one's gonna take him off Bear.

I'd like to, but it's not my call. I sent him here, yeah, but he's the one who made the choices after that and I'll respect them.

Bear slaps Mark's chest jovially, leaving a bright, hot handprint on the pale skin, the sound flat and loud even over the music. Mark hasn't seen me yet, withdrawn into himself, maybe close to panicking, but the slap brings his head up, his eyes wild. Bear grins and tweaks a nipple roughly, then feeds Mark some more beer, dribbling it onto Mark's face from his mouth and finishing with a wet kiss.

"He likes him," Ted says. "When he bought a beer, he said the kid was respectful, with nice manners."

"He's a mouthy wannabe with an attitude," I say shortly.

Ted whistles. "Someone's in love."

"Fuck off," I say and take my beer and my pissy mood over to Bear's table.

He surges up and hugs me. No one else ever does that, but I endure it because I like him. Don't get him, but I like him.

"Been too long," he tells me, his voice a rumble in my ear. "Gotta be a year."

"I dropped by in the fall, but you weren't here." I dredge up a memory. "Picking up bike parts in Iowa?"

"Yeah, could be." He grins. "Shits that pass."

I give the joke a smile, though he's used it before. A lot. "Long drive."

He scratches his nose. "Got family out that way."

He doesn't add anything and I let it go. Not everyone's got a dad like Mark's and not every family issue is about a son being gay and seriously kinky, for that matter. I know one man whose family kicked him out, not for being gay, but for moving in with a man with Irish grandparents. People are weird.

At our feet, Mark shifts position, restless, uneasy. Is he expecting a rescue or wishing I'd leave? I don't know him well enough to tell.

Bear reaches out his hand and fondles Mark's head roughly, then cuffs it. "Be still, pup."

Mark whines, his face heating up at the sound he makes or maybe from being disciplined in front of me. He's losing it. I love watching him break, but I want it to be me making it happen.

Missed my chance. My timing's been off for a while now.

"What do you think?" Bear grabs Mark's hair and tugs, exposing his face to me. "Sweet as sugar."

"We've met once before," I say. I don't lie to friends or subs. "He was looking for something, so I sent him here."

"Guess he found it." Bear frowns. He's no poacher. "You mind me taking him home?"

I can smell the stink coming off Mark, a mix of arousal, fear, and sweat. I want to find the places on him where that smell's the strongest and lick them wet and clean.

"He's yours," I say easily. "Don't think he'll say yes to you though, but he sure as hell needs a paddling."

"They all do," Bear says indifferently, but I can see a shadow of doubt in his eyes. He knows Mark's green as grass, but that doesn't mean much. I remember seeing a sub get his first whipping at a club I used to go to a lot. The Dom called a halt, not the sub. Total pain slut, that one. He came down from the post with blood trickling down his back and a blissed-out snarl of a smile on his face, his eyes washed empty with tears. An hour later, he was back up there, begging on his knees for another flogging, but no one would touch him. Never saw him again. "He said he'd do anything."

Oh, you stupid boy.

"I will," Mark says clearly, and the sullen aggression's back. "Don't listen to him."

Bear exchanges a glance with me, shrugs, and takes a step to the side, giving me the space I need. I backhand Mark across the face, a solid crack that rocks his head and leaves his cheek blooming hotly. There'll be a faint blue bruise rising as the red fades and it'll be there, an echo of the slap, when he wakes in the morning.

If he goes home with Bear, he'll do it wearing a mark from me. I'm shaken by how much that idea pleases me. Then I see the satisfaction in Mark's eyes, and I've maybe given away too much of myself with that slap, but it's the last he gets from me.

Bear clears his throat and takes off his belt, the worn leather hissing through the loops of his jeans. Mark's expression changes to wary, though he's interested, no fucking doubt about it. Does he seriously think Bear will hand me his belt? 

He won't. I wouldn't take it if he did, but he never would.

Bear squats down, grunting when his belly gets in the way, and slides the belt around one of the struts forming the back of his chair. Then he drags the chair closer to Mark and buckles the belt around his neck, anchoring him to the chair.

"Stay," he says and beckons to me to follow him.

Bear always did talk too much.

We're three steps away, heading for a quiet corner, when Mark makes a choking noise. We turn as one, but it's habit, not concern. The belt isn't tight and Mark's hands are free. It's a symbolic tether.

Mark's not in any physical distress, but he's glaring at us incredulously and I feel a glimmer of pity. He's got to be feeling so very fucking exposed, so very lonely. No one will go near him or talk to him, though a few will look their fill. He's suffering.

I decide I like the way he looks when he's close to angry tears, his chest heaving, the flush from Bear's slap gone, my handprint staining his cheek.

We stand where we can see him, though from his position on the floor, he has to crane his neck to see us, and I wait for Bear to say his piece.

"You're interested in him."

I give him a brief account of how we met, leaving out any mention of Mark's dad. It's a bare handful of words, but Bear chuckles knowingly and something about that chuckle erases the time that's passed without seeing him. The Saddle's welcoming me again, slowly, but hell, I just walked in and I'm disciplining an unruly sub, so maybe not that slowly. "Yeah, you're interested. You always did make it hard on yourself. Had him and tossed him back and now you want him again."

"He came to you," I remind him. "It's his choice to make."

Bear shakes his head. "He's too nervy for what I want. You're right; he'll rabbit. Why waste my time? I'll cut him loose and you can start over. Call it a welcome back present—and don't let it be this long before we see you again, you hear me?"

"Sure. That's probably what he wants, though," I say, thinking it through. "He expected me to show, and when I didn't he got angry and decided to teach me a lesson for turning him down three times. Then I came running to save him from the big bad bear and he thinks he's won."

I can see that pisses Bear off as much as me, but it's not like I haven't dealt with subs like this before. I don't recall any of them looking pleased with themselves by the time I finished.

"Want me to take him back anyway and scare the shit out of him?"

I consider it. I'm not what anyone would call a nice man and there's a certain justice to giving Mark what he asked for. Reluctantly, I shake my head. "He needs this. I could tell. He's pissed me off, but I don't want to sour him on the scene before he's had a real taste of it. Could be a taste's all it'll take to scare him off anyway."

Bear snorts. "He's kneeling where I left him and my boots are spit-shined. I think he's where he belongs. Boy needs to learn his place."

We're close to a rack of pool cues and the table's free. I take a cue and smile at Bear. "I'll play you for him. You win and you deal with him as you see fit."

He picks up a cue and smacks it against his hand. "Oh, I've got lots of ideas."

I don't think he has, beyond what he always does—love the guy, but he's lacking in imagination. Still, a paddling from Bear won't hurt Mark—okay, it'll _hurt_ , but he'll enjoy it.

"So have I," I say, and we head for the table, ignoring Mark.

He picks up on the stakes about halfway through the game from our conversation, and straightens, anxious, trying to see who's winning.

I'm rusty and Bear's damn good, but I'm so fucking sure I'm going to win it's a shock when I don't. 

Bear slaps my shoulder. "Good game. You're out of practice or it might've gone your way."

I consider suggesting best of three, but I'd never respect myself in the morning if I did. I smile instead. "You're too good for me, always were. I only beat you once and you had food poisoning."

"Don't remind me. I lost ten pounds." He pats his belly. "Found them again."

I walk over to Mark. His head's down and he doesn't look up even when I nudge his knee with the toe of my boot. "Have fun."

"You're an asshole." It's muttered, but he knows I heard. 

He doesn't know what coming here's cost me or he wouldn't say that. I'd walked away, tried to forget, and now it's like I've never left. The smell of the bar drags me back to the past; stale beer, sweat, a constant awareness of what we are and what's on offer between these walls. I glance over at a table and watch as a sub is turned over his Dom's knee, his skimpy tight shorts pulled down to expose a round butt. The first slap is loud, the wail he gives excited, contrite, sweeps me further back to the first spanking I dealt out in public.

I close my hand around a phantom burn and ache for the man I was.

Walking out and leaving the boy behind isn't easy, but neither was walking in.

The guy on the door doesn't sneer at me, but he comes close. "Didn't stick around long, did'ja? See something you didn't like?"

"I'm looking at something I don't like right now," I say. "Learn some manners, boy."

"You don't get to call me that." He turns his head and spits. Oh, that's really put me in my place. "Come back and crawl to someone in there and maybe they'll let you lick their boots clean after they've pissed on them."

Been there, seen that...

I take a moment to study him and he starts to fidget. He'd expected a comeback, maybe hoped for a thrown punch that would give him the excuse to pound on me some. Silence is a weapon and a tool every good Dom learns to use after a while.

I wait until he's about to speak again, then open my mouth, cutting him off. "There's a penny on the floor of the bar in there. Glued down."

"Yeah. So?"

"You know the story?"

"Everyone does. It's been there for fucking years."

"I'm why it's there," I tell him.

He flinches. If it's true, I'm someone who belongs. Someone he should respect. Then he looks me over and finds me wanting. "Yeah, saying it won't make it true, but go ahead, fool yourself you're a big bad Dom if you want."

I eye him, angry with myself because I'm not angry with him. Why should he believe me? I'm not even wearing leather, don't carry myself with the bone-deep certainty I can bring a man to his knees with a look. Not now. 

Mark deserves better. I know it and that's why I'm walking away from a game Bear did his best to throw. 

"I know what I am."

I drive home with a headache pounding at the inside of my skull, not trying to get out, just trying to knock some sense into me.

***

The knock on my door comes at five in the morning, a hellish time for a man like me who stays up late and wakes at a civilized time on a workday. Nine and my feet hit the floor, ten and the store is open for business. 

Five o'clock only exists when I catch a look at the clock on my way back to bed after a piss taken sitting because I don't want to blind myself by turning on the light.

I get up after the fourth round of knocking, naked as a newborn but with more hair, and pull on jeans. I ease the zipper up as I go downstairs and curse when, inevitably, I catch a hair or two on the teeth. Going commando isn't comfortable. My balls are chafed and I still feel naked when I yank open the door, a scowl waiting.

Bear's holding Mark by the scruff of the neck, mama cat style. There are tear tracks on Mark's face and the bruise I gave him is stark against pale flesh.

"You can have him," Bear says and thrusts him forward into my arms, raised instinctively to catch him. "Later, 'gator."

"Yeah," I mutter, moving back so I can shut the door on the threat of dawn. Door closed, I look Mark over. He's dressed, but buttons are in the wrong holes and his socks are balled up in the front pocket of his jeans, close to falling out. 

He gives a dry hiccup of a sob, swaying in place, and I rub my hands over my face trying to wake up enough to think. My head's full of a buzzing drone, my reflexes sluggish. I'm no fucking good to anyone when I'm woken like this and I know it.

I yawn wide and loud, not troubling to cover my mouth, hitting him with a blast of morning breath and not caring. "Unless you need medical attention, you can tell me what happened when I wake up. Find a flat place to sleep and do not, under any circumstances, wake me before nine." I reconsider. Talking to him is going to fuck with my routine and I'm expecting a delivery tomorrow at ten. "Make that eight-thirty."

I start up the stairs and don't look back. He knows where the couch is. 

 

***

 

I'm woken by a cleared throat and a whiff of coffee curling under my nose. When was the last time I had coffee brought to me in bed?

Stupid question. I knew when. And who delivered it.

This time, it's not a naked sub on his knees, head lowered, quiet and attentive in his service offering me a mug of java. I've got Mark, fully dressed, pinched around the mouth, stubble dark on his chin and upper lip.

He looks like shit. I crack my eyes as wide as they'll go and nod at the table by the bed. "Find a place for it on there."

He doesn't set the mug down on top of a book. I give him points for that. Instead, he stacks the three that are there using one hand and makes enough room.

I'm impressed. Right now even that much coordination and rational thinking is beyond me. I sit up, scratch my chest languidly, and reach for the mug. Hot. Wet. Too weak. Oh well. It's not like I've got exacting standards that have to be met precisely and in full. Not now. Not with him. In fact, technically he's a guest and I should be….nah. He woke me up. He's a nuisance. Nuisances don't get breakfast.

I don’t get why coffee's this religious experience. As long as it tastes of coffee, I'm good with it. Don't give a fuck where the beans are from, or if they've been kept in a freezer or not kept in a freezer whatever the current fad is. When I buy it, it's from a place that lets you order by size, nothing else, and you put in your own milk and sugar.

When I've got a sub around, I get fussy as hell about it, but it's not about the coffee itself. It's about giving clear guidelines and consistency. In the early days, it's usually a way to work in an earned spanking every morning because they never get it right. I don't need a reason to turn a sub over my knee beyond wanting to do it, but I get a kick out of punishing them for failing and the last time I felt guilty over that was so long ago it doesn't count. 

Mark brings his arms up, crossing them, and rams hands shaking enough for the tremors to be visible into his armpits.

"Sit."

His face contorts in a pained grimace. A clue, Watson, a clue. The young man's ass still feels like it's got a red-hot poker shoved up it. I wonder why? 

With gingerly care, he sits sideways on the bed, then shifts his weight on one hip. That jars the bed so coffee slops out over my hand. It's hot enough to sting, but there's enough milk in it to make it no more than a minor irritant. I put the mug aside and wipe my hand on the comforter. I need to do laundry. I'm turning into a slob, wallowing under covers that smell of me, not fresh air and detergent. Even I have standards though and coffee stains will force me to meet them.

"You want to talk?" It's a reluctantly made offer, but I can't escape the sense I'm responsible for him. Stupid of me. 

"Do you want to listen?" His chin jerks up, a spark of defiance in his eyes quenched by the appeal flooding in a moment later. He's so easy to read, but I warn myself not to get complacent. There's more than one type of poker face.

"Not really, but I will. Keep it short and sweet, huh? I'm tired, I'm grouchy, and I need to get to work."

Is that insult I can see widening his eyes? Does he think his problems matter more than any of that? Not to me. Because he's washed-out and shaky, I give him a nudge to get him going.

"You went home with Bear. I know him and I trust him but he's not perfect and you're green as grass. What happened? Communication breakdown? Or did you change your mind but decide to tough it out and it went too far?"

I know I've nailed it when his gaze drops to the bed.

I sigh, not surprised and not particularly sympathetic either. Bear's a fucking idiot for even trying and Mark…Mark needs to be taken in hand, taught, tutored, trained.

"Run a bath. Epsom salts. Soak it out. There's some make-your-asshole-feel-better cream in the second drawer down."

He bites on his lower lip as if it's breakfast, then nods.

I slump back against the pillows when I hear the water running and contemplate the ceiling. It feels like the universe is pushing me to take him on as a sub, get back on the horse that threw me and all that crap.

Never did like being topped from the bottom. When he's dry and dressed, I toss him out, ignoring his muttered thank you and avoiding the question mark he tacks on to his "see you soon".

I've got enough questions of my own to find answers to. Do I need a sub in my life? No. I've functioned fine without one for nearly a year.

Do I _want_ one? Maybe.

Do I want Mark?

Fuck, yes, but he's not ready for me. I play rough. Rougher than Bear. I'm not kind and I know what I am. I scare people.

The bouncer's contemptuous, dismissive smile floats in front of me like the Cheshire cat's. 

God, I've lost my edge. If I hone it on Mark, on all that fresh, untouched skin, those shiny, brand-spanking new fantasies, I could get it back, but what state would he be in when I'd finished?

Too many questions.

I jerk off in a shower that runs cold because Mark's bath drained most of the hot water, and picture him tied down, legs spread, waiting for my greased up fist to work him obscenely open. I come with his screams pinball-bouncing around my head, shuddering and dizzy with arousal.

Guess that answers a few questions.

***

 

"Bear –" He corrects himself before I can do it for him. "The man I went home with from the bar. He said you haven't had a sub for a long time. Why?"

"How many of Bear's fingers did you take up your ass before you screamed your word?" I counter. If he's going to be curious past the point of politeness, I'm going to poke him back.

"Three." He doesn't color up but he squirms a little. It's been six days since he took those fingers so it's a reflex, nothing more. "How many did you expect me to take?"

"Two. Not because you were hurting but because you'd done the math and knew you couldn't take them all."

"Two felt good. Three… He rushed me, I think."

I shake my head, as slow a movement as Bear's would've been. "Nope. It's his thing. He wouldn't have rushed it. He's a patient man when it comes to his kinks. Single-minded as hell and patient. You tensed up. Panicked. He missed the signs."

His gaze doesn't waver. "Do you? Miss signs? Hurt subs accidentally? Is that why—"

"It's not a secret," I tell him, sick of the fencing match. I've condensed the story down over the months so I can spit it out fast, like a mouthful of food with a hair in it. "I had a sub, it wasn't working, and I cut him loose. He took it badly, one thing led to another, and he ended up doing eighteen months for driving over the limit, and rear-ending a cop car at a light."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, Paul's luck always did skew the wrong way. Swinging his fist at the cop, then going to his knees and trying to blow him didn't help matters. He got out early and left town two months ago after tossing a brick through the window of my shop. I stepped back from the scene when he got arrested because I needed a break from the self-righteous assholes who blamed me for it all. Want more details? You're as out of luck as him."

I push away from the table and head for the back door. If I hold it open long enough, he'll get the message and leave.

He stays in his seat, eyebrows lifting in a silent question. 

"You're not leaving. Why?"

He shrugs. It's a simple movement, no arrogance to it. "Why would I? We're not done here."

"We are if I say so."

He clicks his tongue against his teeth, a reproving sound. "Horse before the cart."

"What?" I close the door because he's clearly not walking through it and I must look like an idiot.

"You can't give me orders until we've had the conversation I came here to have. And once we've had it, why would you want me to leave?"

His logic's sound enough. I sit at the table my chair close enough to his that our knees touch. "Why did you come here?"

He gets it's both rhetorical and a question I want answering. Smart boy. "You ordered me to." He compresses his lips, inhaling sharply. "I thought—I assumed—you were interested in me as a sub and you wanted to end the game we've been playing. I won't bother pretending I'm not willing to be that for you. I am. You know I am."

"Yeah," I agree. "I know. I'm not sure I'm what you need."

His gaze doesn't waver. "Suppose I tell you what I want and you let me know what I'll need to do without. I'm willing to compromise on some of it."

"What you want?" I chuckle. "You really expect that to matter to me, boy?"

He doesn't back down. "It should." I stare at him until hesitation shows on that expressive, intelligent face. "Doesn't it? At all?"

He's so beautifully indignant at the suggestion I'm not interested in fulfilling every detail of his jerk-off fantasies. "Sometimes it wouldn't matter more than the shit I flush away. I don't play at this. It's who I am. It's what gets me hot. I'm selfish, I'm a sadist, and I'd use you to satisfy my needs. My needs. Your needs had better fucking revolve around pleasing me or you can leave now."

He's crossed over from confused to irritated now. "Well, yes, of course they would, but you can't ignore what _I_ want, what _I_ need. It has to interest you."

"Why?"

He blinks at me in silence then says, "Because if you keep doing things I don't like, I'll be saying my safeword more times than I say, 'Yes, Sir' and that would piss you off. Easier to find out what I won't do first."

I nod, then point out the obvious. "That's what you _won't_ do. I never said I didn't want to hear about that. I do. In detail."

"You want to keep me safe and keep a scene moving without interruptions, but seeing to my enjoyment isn't something you consider part of your responsibilities? Is that it?"

It's close enough. "Let's say it is. Let's say if I like seeing you with blue balls, you won't get to come until I decide it'd be fun to see how far you can shoot. Think you can handle that?"

"I'd enjoy the idea of you controlling me but the physical reality of not being allowed to come would be an issue after a while. I like sex. I like coming."

"More than pleasing me? More than offering me a perfect, ungrudging submission?"

And that's when I know he's mine because he leans in as if he can't help it, just has to get closer, and he slides to his knees to put himself lower than me, his breathing loud and ragged, his chest heaving the way a runner's does at the end of a long race. 

"I asked you a question." God, it's hard to keep my voice steady. 

He moves his head to the side, so his cheek is resting against the inside of my knee, a small, stolen piece of comfort. I take a handful of his hair and tug until his head's bent back, his throat a taut bow. "Well?"

He has to form the words carefully to be intelligible with so little air to work with, but all the strength I'll use to make this work between us is showing when he replies. "I thought I'd answered it, Sir."

I smile and tug harder, then bend forward and lick that tight, stretched skin from the hollow at his throat to the tip of his chin. He tastes of nothing. I'll change that.

"You've got limits. No-go areas. Things that you've read about, watched in porn, that turn your stomach and leave your dick limp."

I guess the noise he makes is meant to be a yes.

I scrape my teeth over the wet skin and watch it flare red. "Let's find out what they are."

I settle him across my knee, naked, hands tied to a collar around his neck. It's not a collar with any significance, just an anchor point, but he liked me putting it on him and I got hard buckling it.

We watch porn for hours. A lot of it. I listen to him talk, watch his dick more than his mouth. When they contradict each other, I punish him, a slap across his flat belly, a twist of a nipple. Honesty and trust. Gotta have those.

When we get to a scene I like, I push him down to the floor and tell him to suck me, spilling my cum into his mouth and telling him not to swallow, but to kneel there, mouth open, the thick white drool trickling down his chin and running down his neck.

His skin won't taste empty the next time I lick and bite at it.

It'll taste of me.

***

The Leather Saddle's close to empty at eleven on a Tuesday morning. No bouncer, no cars or bikes in the parking lot. I walk in, Mark trailing behind me, and breathe in deep. Yeah, I've missed this place. 

Ted nods at us, busy filling the shelves with clean glasses. "Be with you in a minute."

"No rush," I tell him and take a walk around, my shadow with me every step of the way. It's not really been that long since I was a regular, but even the smallest change is a slap in the face. A rip in a poster; a section of the wall blank where I remembered a nail and a pair of handcuffs. There was a story to them but they'd been there so long no one knew it. Now they'd gone.

I lead Mark over to the bar and snap my fingers, pointing down. It’s a useful bar. Under the solid surface is a railing, handy to tie a sub to, and at intervals, for those who want to use them, collars hang from chains. I’ve never been here with a sub new enough his neck was bare, but Mark is a long way off that stage. I buckle the collar around his neck, and watch his face bloom with heat. He blushes as easily as I sneeze. I play with the collar, sliding my fingers under it, the wild beat of his pulse making me linger in one place, reading its message. He stares up, adoring, pleading and God, I could turn, unzip, slide my cock between those parted lips and use him. I want to.

Would I feel at home then? 

Ted clears his throat. "What can I get you?"

I glance over the selection of drafts beers and pick one. It comes in a glass, and there's a bowl plunked down beside it. I shrug, slop some beer into the bowl and set in on the floor. "No hands," I warn Mark. "Make a mess and you lick it up."

He draw in a breath, realizes the futility of protest and bends forward cautiously to lap at the beer. Not sure he gets more than a taste before I snap my fingers and gesture for him to kneel up again.

I'm not trying to piss him off. I'm training him. Pissing him off is a given.

"You don't drink until I do. Add another to the count."

"I'm getting misty-eyed," Ted says wryly. "Never thought I'd see you with a raw sub again."

"Life has a way of surprising you." I take a sip of beer, then put my foot on the top of Mark's head and push it down. "Now you can drink."

"How many is he up to?"

"Tell him, boy."

"Seven," he mutters. 

I know why he's pouting; he thinks it should be five.

He'll soon learn how to count my way.

"Going to take care of it now?" Ted's a sub; doesn't mean he doesn't get off on seeing a fellow sub punished. Maybe we've all got a dash of sadist in us. 

I grin and pretend to consider it, but there's not a chance in hell. Take care of his first daily tally in public? No, that's for me to enjoy. "Hardly worth it. If we're ever in here and he's in double figures, maybe then."

Mark hunches his shoulders as if it'll make him invisible. It doesn't. I deal out a slap to the back of his head and tell him to kneel up straight, hands behind his back instead of resting on his thighs. That takes care of the slouching. 

I'm shooting the breeze with Ted, catching up in a desultory way; no need to rush, when the next customer of the day walks in.

Bald head, shaven smooth, attitude that stinks the place up before he's gotten halfway to the bar. Your friend and mine, the bouncer who thinks he's Cerebus.

He sneers when he sees me, a juicy lip curl, a scornful sniff. Oh, I've made his fucking morning.

"We serving tourists now, Ted?" he asks, taking the bar stool to my right, Mark kneeling between us.

Ted thinks he means Mark. _Mark_ thinks he means Mark. I know he means me. And from the way my sub stiffens, lips tightening, his feelings aren't hurt, but he's annoyed. I can't trust him to behave when he's angry. Not yet.

I give him a warning glance he pretends not to see. I take his chin in my hand and make him meet my gaze, then release him and hold up eight fingers.

"Usual, Ritchie?" Ted asks, ignoring the gibe because it's for me to deal with.

"Huh? Yeah." 

The usual is the same beer I'm drinking. We've got that much in common at least. 

Ritchie takes a healthy swig and turns to me. "See you picked a nice quiet time to play at being a hard guy. Hoping you could sneak in and out without meeting anyone, then brag about how this is your regular hangout?"

The snort of laughter from Ted, quickly smothered, makes Ritchie puff out his chest. Oh God, he thinks Ted's laughing at me. 

"I'm here for a drink," I say. "And yeah, I picked a time when I knew it would be empty."

"Thought so." He seems satisfied and I let myself think it'll blow over and when I leave Ted will fill him in and maybe—oh, who the fuck am I kidding? He's showing me up in front of my sub in a place I used to see as home and there isn't any way out of this that's going to be bloodless and calm.

He makes it easy for me by reaching down and ruffling Mark's hair. "Want me to give you the names of some guys who'd make this loser piss his pants by looking at them? Cute little puppy like you would be just what they're looking for."

Ted's hands leave the bar and go out of sight. He doesn't—didn't —keep a gun behind there but the lost and found box at a leather bar can yield some effective deterrents to people spoiling for a fight. I saw him use a bullwhip once to break up a scuffle turned nasty, the glint of a knife showing, cracking it loud enough the bar went silent, a vibrant stillness that gave me chills.

"Please don't touch my sub without permission," I say, proud of my restraint. "It's rude."

"It's rude'," he mimics. "What's rude is you thinking you can push your way in here—"

"Ritchie," Ted says, "you're making a mistake."

He spreads his hands, all innocence. "Just doing my job, boss. I'm s'posed to keep out the gawkers, the ones who treat us like we're animals in the zoo. You can tell by looking at him he's—"

I stand and smash my fist into his mouth with as little passion as I'd use to hammer a nail. He rides the punch, breathing heavy, the taste of blood in his mouth because he licks his cut lip as it yields a few red drops.

"So you want to fight." 

"No. I wanted to bring my sub to a safe place so he could get used to kneeling for me in public and I could catch up on the dirt because I've been out of the scene for a while. I wanted a quiet drink in a seat my ass has worn smooth over the last decade talking to a friend I've known for – how long, Ted?"

He shrugs. "Fifteen? Twenty? Who's counting?"

"Bullshit," Ritchie says.

The doubt I hear is as sweet as the ache in my knuckles. "You know it's not." I move to the side so Mark's not kneeling between us—and he's being such a good boy holding position I might think about a reward when this is over—and close the gap. 

Ritchie's got an inch or two on me and fifty pounds of muscle, but who gives a fuck? I'm a Dom, he's a sub who likes getting bruised, and he knew deep down what I was from the moment he saw me.

I grab his torn lip between finger and thumb and twist, his hoarse shriek kicking my lust up a notch. "On your knees, boy."

He could snap my wrist, break free, punch me…so many ways he could fight back, but with a whimpered sob, he goes down, knees slamming against wood, back rigid.

Mark hisses out his disapproval and I warn him to be quiet with a sidelong glare. I'll play with who the fuck I like. He'd better learn that now and learn it good.

"If you wanted my attention, you've got it, but I'm not interested in you as a sub. That position's filled." I slant my gaze at Mark again. "For the moment."

Ritchie's eyes close, hiding what he's feeling from me. I care about that more than I should considering I told him I wasn't interested. I let go of his lip and his eyes open, staring up at me with a mix of bravado and pleading I recognize like my tongue knows my teeth.

Can't help it. I smooth his lip with my fingertip and push it inside his mouth for him to suck clean of blood. The curl of his tongue is eager without being pushy, and I'm so hard I could fuck all three subs watching me and still want more.

Reality slaps some sense into me. We're not on the set of a porn movie and we're not going to have the place to ourselves for long. 

I ignore the other drawback to the orgy; the sad truth I'm pushing forty and no way, no how, can I come three times in a row. It's my fantasy and in it I'm an inexhaustible stud with a cock like iron and about two inches longer.

"Beat up the staff, then stand there grinning. Nice work," Ted mutters low enough I can ignore it if I choose without losing face. "Good to have you back," he adds in a louder voice, smearing an insincere smile across the words and a wink that's genuine.

I'm grinning? Yeah, I am.

Feels good.

 

***

We've driven a mile when I pull over under the shade of a stand of trees, a stream purling through the field bordering the road. Pretty spot. I got a blowjob here once from two subs on their knees competing to please me best and thought I'd seen the face of God in the stars overhead. 

I take off my seatbelt and he does the same. Inside the car, the temperature's rising from more than the sun beating hard against the windshield. Mark's not happy with me. Mark's pouting like a teenage girl who's discovered her new jeans make her butt look big. 

Mark's about to get his butt blistered if he doesn't drop the fucking attitude.

"I don't get it," he says, biting out the words, snapping at them like they're flies and he's a fish. "You take me there, you put a collar on me, then you ignore me to butt heads with an asshole who insults you."

"Do you see him in the car?" I ask. "Did you hear me tell him I wasn't interested? Since your brain isn't working, let me help you out with the answers. No and yes. So shut the fuck up. He needed something I could give him and I felt like being generous. That's between me and him and it's over." I hiss out a breath that was supposed to calm me down and didn't. "And that's more explanation than you deserve so the discussion's over. Clear?"

He doesn't answer. Fine. I reach over and twist his ear, a brutal wrench that has him yelping. "When I ask a direct question, I want an answer. Give it to me now or get out and start walking."

"Stop _hurting_ me," he says and manages to surprise me into releasing him. He angles his body to face me, about to blow a fuse. Got to love a worked-up, frustrated sub. "Stop grabbing me and yanking at me and ignoring me and—"

"And spank you? Tie you up? Ask you nicely how you want to be led by the hand into the rainbow land of subspace when cute little puppies frisk and frolic with bright red butts?" I snort. "Yeah, don't hold your breath. Kid, we've got a generation gap thing going here. You want a sanitized version of what I had at your age and I get that, I do. I hung out in bars where safe, sane, and consensual or whatever that catchphrase is, well, they were just words. They didn't matter to the guy on his knees by the urinal begging me to piss in his mouth or on his dick, or the kids with blood running down their backs wanting one more hit, just one, so they could fly. Some of it was too much for me, some of it I fucking loved, but it doesn't exist now, not around here, anyway."

I sigh, moody as hell, and I know it. "Miss it. Shit, I miss it a lot."

"Times change," Mark says, acidic enough my palm itches. "Sorry about wanting to be treated with respect and feel safe with you."

"Jesus." I shake my head. "Respect, trust, safety… I get it, I do, but don't you want surrendering to mean something? Stay inside your comfort zone and you've got no room to grow."

Mark shrugs, like there's no problem. "We need to compromise."

The hell we do. "I don't do the 'c' word."

"Then I guess you can tell Mr. Muscles back there that he's in with a shot."

"I don't want him. I want you." Saying it, I know I mean it and from the swift, nervous lick his lips get, he's kind of shocked to hear it.

"Then maybe show me?" he suggests and there's no cockiness there, just pleading. "Because I want this to work, I really do, and it's like I'm screwing it up without knowing how."

"Out of the car," I tell him.

His eyes widen. "Why?"

"That, right there? That's you screwing up. I gave you an order. You don't ask why, boy, you obey it. Obey me."

"Trust you."

"Yeah."

He gets out of the car and waits for me to lock it and pocket the keys. I look around. Empty road, not a building in sight, and a stand of trees over by the stream, maybe fifty yards away. It'll do.

I lead him to the trees and we're out of sight of the road now, alone. I pick a likely looking tree and tell him to hug it, arms around it, hands clasped. I think I see that fucking 'why' hovering but it stays unsaid. His hands can't touch so I try another tree. Better. 

I could tie his hands with my belt, but why make it easy? I go to the stream and yank up a plant. Don't know what it is, but the stem is thick and fibrous, long as my arm. I tie his wrists with it.

"I can probably break that," he offers, and I like his tentative, diffident tone. 

"A child of four could break it. That's why I'm using it. It breaks, you get punished. I want you to learn to hold still for me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Told you you needed to earn the right to call me that," I remind him. "That's nine." 

I work his jeans down until they're around his ankles. Long legs and a pale ass, firm enough but not bounce a dime hard. Suits me. I like to see some jiggle when I'm spanking.

He's hard, but with his dick pressed against the tree trunk, he's going to be glad I told him not to move. 

I lean in, mouth close to his ear. "Going to spank you, boy. Out here in the open, where anyone could see you. Going to make the drive back interesting for you because your ass will be on fire."

He moans like it's the best news he's heard and pushes his ass at me, offering it up. 

"Slut," I say fondly, and use my hand to turn those white cheeks blotchy and hot, spanking him with a brisk energy that has my arm aching. Damn, I'm out of practice. 

He takes it well, rising up now and then, his face angled so I get his profile, eyes closed, mouth open. He's so turned on, I can smell it, hanging in the air like the flies buzzing us.

"Let's be kind to my hand," I say, stepping back to admire the picture. The hem of his T-shirt brushes the top of his ass and makes him look more naked somehow. "Where's there's trees, there's bound to be a few fallen branches."

He nods, and God, he's lost in this already, loving it. I don't want to leave him, even for the time it take to find a switch. I run my hands over his ass, squeezing it, fondling it, the heat and pain bursting out like juice from a berry. "Or maybe we can pick a switch to take home and I'll give you the last few with my belt. Leather on your skin, not wood."

"Please," he chokes out, and turns his head to stare at me, eyes glazed with need. "Anything you want."

"Stay still or it stops," I remind him.

The sun's hot on the back of my neck. If we had time, I'd keep him here, let the sun burn his ass, do my work for me. I'd love to spank him over a mild sunburn, just enough to add a smart to every slap. Maybe rub in something cool after, no, cover it with ice, and hear him scream, watch him shudder.

I slide my belt free and double it, swinging it through the air, getting a feel for it again. The leather's supple with age, the hole I use the most puckered. Standing behind him, I whip his butt, backhand, forehand, finding a rhythm sooner than I'd expected. They're gentle strokes for me. I can't trust him to stay still, only to try, and despite what he thinks, I'm careful with my subs. I don't baby them. But every bruise they get is planned.

From the pained grunts Mark's giving me, I'm not sure he'd agree they're soft strokes. Lust and a craving to hurt simmer in my gut. Controlling both is a challenge but I've been here before. I allow myself three strikes I know are going to leave deep bruises and step back as Mark finally breaks position, the third heavy smack of leather on flesh too much for him.

He sobs as I drape the belt over his shoulder, letting him feel the weight of it, a single dry sob that shakes his body. "Sorry, sorry…"

I fit myself to him, blanketing him, not caring the last thing his ass wants is denim rubbing it, and reach around the tree to put my hands on his. He's shuddering, fighting to hold back the tears, eyes screwed shut, that single word all he can say.

"Stop it," I tell him. "You did okay. Better than I expected."

God, if he didn't count, if he didn't matter, I'd fuck him as he stands, tied, shamed, spanked, and love every jab and dig into his hole. He'd let me. Welcome a dry fuck as penance and lick me clean if I told him to. He's gone deep, too deep, too fucking fast. Jesus, twenty minutes ago we were sitting in the car arguing.

And thirty minutes ago, he was on his knees in a collar. Okay, maybe this scene's been going on longer than I thought.

"You told me not to move." Better. A spark of anger. Hate soggy subs, wet with tears every goddamn second. "How is moving when you told me not to doing okay?"

"Think about it. At some point, you were going to move," I tell him. "You're human, not a robot. I was watching for it. Waiting. You did good."

A thread of humor winds through his words. "So I don't get punished for moving?"

"Add two to the count. One for moving, one for asking a question you know the answer to." I break the tie around his wrists, the fibers giving way on the second tug, then pull up his jeans, fastening zipper and button for him because that's my job and his hands are shaking. 

"So was this for mouthing off in the car?" he asks. 

"The spanking?" I roll my eyes. "Boy, that wasn't a punishment. It was a reward. For staying on your knees and out of my way when I punched Ritchie."

"A _reward_?"

"Going to tell me you didn't love every minute of it?"

He shakes his head, a sweet color creeping back into his face. I nod, satisfied. "Reward. Trust me, when I punish you, you'll hate it."

"But you won't."

"Of course not." I swat his ass, a love tap, really. "Move it, boy. I've got plans for the rest of the day."

"Do they include me?"

Stupid question. I swat him again, hard this time, so his hands fly back to massage his butt. "Yep. But maybe not in a way you'll like. I want to swap around the mystery and romance sections in the store and I'm damned if I'm breaking my back shifting a few thousand books by myself."

He bitches about it for a few miles until I threaten to make him do it wearing clamps and a gag. That keeps him quiet for a while, but when he realizes the store's going to be closed as we work, blinds down to keep it cool, he starts again, deliberately this time.

He gets the gag, not the clamps, and not only because a rag is easy to find, but I don't keep sex toys around the store. Why would I? I could've improvised with bulldog clips but I don't approve of subs misbehaving to get punished. 

The rag's one I use to polish the shelves with. It reeks of lemon oil, but that's not my problem.


	2. Part Two

Part Two

 

A few days after our visit to the bar, I meet him at his place and tell him to pack enough to last a week. He works from home, self-employed like me, and when he shows me his schedule I see he's a long way off affording office space. There's an appointment in four days with a prospective client and a couple of projects he's in the middle of, but he packs up his laptop and a few boxes of paperwork after making me promise he'll get time to work on them. I remind him I have a job too. 24/7 is a concept to him, vague, tangled with misconceptions. For me it's a reality, a clear, simple truth. I'll show him what it means to me, but I won't rush it. If he's impatient, he won't last long. Best we find that out now.

We get back to my place and I tell him to set up a workspace in the spare room. I watch him do it. That bothers him. He shoots me glances, waiting for me to get bored and leave. 

Not going to happen. 

He cracks on schedule. "Do you want me to—I mean, are you waiting for something? Is there something I should be doing?"

"What did I tell you to do?"

"Organize my workspace." I can see him bite back the 'Sir' he's dying to add and doesn't have permission to use. I want it to mean something when he says it, be more than a turn-on. We're not there yet.

"And what are you doing?"

He hates being confused, I can tell. It twists at him, unsettling him. His hands clench, release, and he’s rocking forward and back, tiny movements, yeah, but telling. "What you told me to, yes, I get it, but you're standing there and it's, uh, it's unnerving if you really want to know."

"I do want to know and I don't give a shit if it makes you antsy because I'll look at my sub when and how I like for as long as I like. Get used to being on display and do your best to make sure you're giving me something interesting to look at. Be aware of me."

He pauses, a sheaf of paper in his hand, working through what I said. He thinks too much when he should let things flow, easy as breathing, but it's new to him. He's the kind of man who needs to understand why something works, not just be happy that it does.

"If I screw up—"

"I'll never let you wonder about that, trust me," I tell him and get a quick grin. 

He purses his lips, gives me another of those darting glances, and puts the papers on the bed. "I can think of something to do, but wouldn't that piss you off? Don't you want me obeying you, not being independent?"

It's a valid question and it lets me see the situation through his eyes. 

He's way off target. I try not to sound as if I’m lecturing him but I probably fail.

"We'll talk about this more, because this is one of my favorite subjects, but for now, let me give it to you short and simple. I value intelligence in a sub. I don't want you sassing me or challenging me – they're both disrespectful – but I do want you using all that intelligence and imagination to think about pleasing me. I'll never punish you for trying to do that, even if you screw up or I don't like the end result. So that's a standing order. Submit to me in a pleasing way. Sweat over it, work at it. But remember it's fun, too, yeah? I'm your Dom. You get off on submitting to me and I sure as hell love it when you do." I shrug. "That's how it will be, anyway. Right now, we're strangers and we're feeling our way toward something you're hoping is achievable. Trust me when I say it is." 

He nods, slow and thoughtful, then he strips down. At first, it's matter-of-fact and he goes too fast, but he takes his cues from my expression and without making it a tacky bump-n-grind, he makes undressing something that has the blood rushing to my dick.

It's his first deliberate expression of subservience and it's beautiful.

I'd told him we were strangers.

It doesn't feel that way.  
***  
He thinks it's going to be a week of fuck and slap, but I don't need either to get to know him. The spanking by the stream told me he goes down easily into subspace and can tolerate a reasonable amount of pain. Sex is going to feel good because we're men and really, when doesn't it? 

I want to dig deeper than my cock can reach. 

I keep him naked when we're at home. It's summer, the house is warm, and the unrelenting sun gives me an excuse to keep the blinds closed. He gets used to it after some awkward hours and I enjoy the easy access, rarely letting him pass by without touching him, ignoring the bob of his erection as irrelevant to me. 

Because I've missed touching someone, I work him over with a massage that leaves him limp and purring, body oil painting his skin glossy. 

"I should be doing this to you," he says drowsily, sprawled out on my bed, a towel under him to protect the sheets. "I want to. Want to serve you."

It's the first time he's admitted that. He's made me drinks, but stopped short of offering them to me on his knees. Hovered around the bathroom when I'm showering, but never asked to come in and wash me or dry me. 

I could order him to do a lot of things I expect from a sub, but I'm curious how long it'll take for his need to serve to surface. Some subs don't care. They want the pain, the rush, the sex. Fixing me coffee doesn't thrill them.

"Remember what I told you when you unpacked?"

"Think about pleasing you. I do."

"Maybe you should think less, do more," I say and lay a slap on his ass as I get off the bed. "Up."

He rolls to his back, then moves to his knees, spreading them wide and putting his hands behind him, his head lowered so the back of his neck is a flat place of skin waiting for a kiss from my mouth or a flogger. 

"Sir."

"I told you not to call me that."

_Because when you do, I want to fuck you, whip you, tie you, hurt you…_

"You told me it had to mean something when I did. It does."

I put my hand on the back of his neck. Some Doms like their subs to have long hair so that they can grab and tug it. I do too, but I love this part of their body too much to hide it. So sensitive, so overlooked. I clamp down and relish his reaction, the sucked-in breath, the moan as he releases it. When I massaged him there, I had to order him to stay still.

"What does it mean, boy?"

I see his hands grip each other tighter, skin white around his fingers, shoulders straining. "You know what it means. Everything."

"Not good enough. Go deeper. Bleed for me."

"Oh." His hands are fists now, still held in the small of his back, but not touching. "This is hard. So fucking hard."

"Yeah."

"It means I respect you."

"You don't," I say. "You're just horny and think mouthing some sincere please, Sirs will get you laid."

He jerks his head up, eyes blazing. "I do!" The indignation is real, but it kind of proves my point.

I run my thumb over the skin behind his ear, then push his head down again. "Moving on."

"Being here with you…it's more and less than I'd expected." He's talking slowly now, choosing his words. "I thought you'd fuck me and you haven't. Thought you'd make me sleep on the floor, not in my room. Thought you'd spank me, but you’ve barely touched me. You didn't even tell me I couldn't jerk off."

"I'm a monster," I say. "How can I apologize enough?" I pinch his earlobe. "So did you?"

"Jerk off? No, of course not."

Of course not. If I don't know how to train a new sub, Mark does. He's probably gone to sleep with his hands outside the covers in case his hands get busy as he dreams.

"Why not?"

More of that gorgeous indignation. Cute as a button. "Because I'm not supposed to! Because I'm yours and that part of my life is yours to control, not me."

"Wrong," I say and reinforce the message with a pinch administered to his right nipple. He's told me nipple play isn't something he likes. I told him it sucked to be him then, because I loved it.

I think he got the message.

" _Why_ is it wrong?"

"You don't get to pick and choose which parts of your life I control. I do. And it's all of it. You don't get to decide for yourself what's forbidden. That's arrogant and lacking in that respect you're trying to convince me you're full of." I pat his face. He hates that. "You're wasting this week with me, boy. I'm starting to wonder if I made a mistake choosing you."

It's cruel to threaten him, but I'm getting worried. He's spinning his wheels and the hints I'm dropping aren't registering. We need a breakthrough.

The silence between us is sticky with resentment, maybe on both our parts. I'm hungry for him, but I want more than he does and that bothers me. 

"Why do you think I told you to move in for a week?"

"To get to know me," he says promptly.

And there it is. Typical sub. It's all about the Dom when they're begging, babbling out protestations, but bottom line, they think it's all about them. "That's half of it. What's the rest?"

"To, uh, train me?"

How I'm stopping myself from dancing up and down, pulling out my hair and whimpering, I don't know. "Yeah, in time, but, boy, there are two of us in this." I jab his chest with my finger. "You need to get to know me. Yeah, you're nodding. Now tell me why."

He opens his mouth, closes it, and finally does some fucking thinking. I drag over a chair and sit by the bed waiting for him. I can be patient when he's thinking; it's watching him spin his wheels, clueless and drifting that drives me mad.

"So that I can serve you better?"

"Say it again without the question mark."

"I need to get to know my Dom so that I can serve him better," he says, parrot-fashion. Then he meets my eyes. "You. I need to know you."

"And the most you've learned in three days is how I like my coffee. I told you I'd forgive you fucking up if you were trying to please me, so why the fuck haven't you tried? You thought jerking off was forbidden; why not use that mouth of yours to ask me and find out?"

I'm close to losing my temper and I rein it in. He's new. It's not all his fault.

"What number are you up to with your count?"

"Nineteen," he says promptly. His eyes flicker, nerves showing. He's wondering when he gets to wipe the slate clean and start over, I guess. And what that cleansing will entail.

"I'll freeze the count until tomorrow if you can tell me one significant thing you've learned about me this week."

He doesn't make me wait for long. "You're lonely."

Winter. Covers ripped off me in the middle of the night. Cold air striking my flesh like a hand, leaving me disorientated, vulnerable…

That's what it feels like. I want to lash out, but that won't help. That screams that it's the truth. I stretch my lips in another smile. See? I don't care. I'm not angry. That proves it isn't true in a way that matters. "Something I don't know, boy."

Quick as a flash, he snaps, "That wasn't what you asked for."

I enjoy these arguments more than I should. Enjoy the snap, crackle, pop as we trade hits. "True. Okay, based on what? Anyone can pick an adjective."

He recites his reasons, an over-achiever showing up a teacher in class. "Your business is mostly online and your store's empty for hours at a time which leaves you with no one to talk to. I've been here for three days and the phone never rings. Your friends are all in the scene and you cut yourself off from them. You hate that. You're not used to being isolated. You're lonely."

"Wrong tense," I tell him, giving in because I value the truth even when it's a blade tearing me open. "I was lonely. Now I've got you and if you're ready to make an effort, I'll keep you."

He slides off the bed to kneel by my chair. Without asking permission, he bends over, the curve of his back inviting, enticing, and kisses my bare feet, one after the other. 

"Let me serve you," he murmurs. "Let me please you." His breath hitches and he rubs his check against my ankle. "Just saying that makes me hard. I want to be perfect for you, but I don't know – you don't seem to want what I have. Don't want to fuck me, have me blow you, don't want to tie me, spank me—"

"I want all of that," I tell him. "But I could've had that from Ritchie. You need an incentive? Be better than he could ever be."

"I don't need an incentive." He tilts his head back. "This is who I am. You're mine to serve."

Interesting way to put it, but I don't mind the possessiveness running both ways. 

The connection between us is alive, a crackling force. I could do anything to him now and have it welcomed. Slide my hand in him the way Bear wanted to, whip him until his skin yields blood, scar him, mark him as mine.

He's not ready for it, but I am.

"Nineteen," I say to him. "Do you know what you're counting, boy?"

"I've been wondering," he admits. "Not a spanking. Nineteen slaps isn't much."

"I could have you in tears by twelve using just my hand, but yeah, in the general scheme of things, you're right."

"A, uh, a cane or a crop, something that really hurts, well, it seems too much. Maybe time? Nineteen minutes in bondage or in the corner, or wearing clamps or – okay, you're shaking your head but I'm out of ideas."

I shrug. "If it helps, I didn't have anything specific in mind. I just enjoyed watching you worry as the count went up. Maybe it's high enough. Let's wipe out the first one with a spanking."

His eyes widen. "A spanking only wipes off one? I screw up a few times a day! I'll never work them off."

"Three things," I tell him. "One, if you apply yourself, you'll screw up less. Two, who the hell said you had to get back to zero? Not me. And three, why aren't you over my knee?"

I'm prepared for hesitation or a jarring grin, but he surprises me, rising, and positioning himself without self-consciousness, his face set in calm lines.

I stroke his ass, cool, smooth skin, waiting for my hand. 

He twists his head to the side. "Before you start, can I ask for something?" 

"Okay," I say, curious.

"When it's over and I thank you for it, can I call you 'sir'? I promise I won't say it again until you tell me I can, but this time? Please?"

Sweet as sugar, this one. 

I nod. "But if you do, you don't get to come."

Sometimes I can be the Dom he expects. 

***  
He crawls into my bed the morning after I spanked him and wakes me with his tongue on my balls.

He's lucky I didn't say good morning with a knee to his nose. I don't like surprises and I'm used to opening my eyes to an empty room.

It's not a bad way to wake though. Anonymous mouth, all that warm, succulent heat. Pure fantasy stuff and I close my eyes again and sprawl out, letting him show off his tricks. He's okay. Needs to pay more attention to what I like and what I really like, but buried under the covers maybe it's hard to hear my approving grunts. When I've had enough of holding back, I reach down to hold his head still, finishing myself off with a few deep thrusts that make him choke and splutter even before I come.

I reward his initiative by jerking him off, making him kneel on the bed, holding onto the headboard, his back flat. One hand to spank with, the other working his cock. The blowjob felt good, but reducing him to a squirming, gasping mess pleases me more. He can't decide whether to push his ass up for more of the toast-crisp smacks I'm peppering his skin with or fuck the tunnel of my hand. Greedy boy. He wants the pain and the pleasure.

And isn't that what we do? Make them the same thing?

He comes with a hot rush and a groan, shooting over sheets I'll make him launder after breakfast, then collapses on his back, staring up at me with the mindless adoration of a puppy.

I wipe my hand on the sheets and give him a speculative look. "You've got work to do."

"Yeah. All online."

He's told me how it felt to be in a meeting with a client yesterday; dressed, aware of every mark I've left on his body, the grinding ache in his balls as he pictured me walking in and telling him to kneel and suck me.

"If I had, would you have done it?" I'd asked, wondering if I could pencil in another limit.

"No." He'd shaken his head. "It would've been rude. Making someone feel uncomfortable isn't something I get off on."

"I do," I'd told him. "I'd get a kick out of leaving you unsettled, off balance -- but I'd never do it to you with an audience and 24/7 doesn't mean fucking with you at work."

He'd smiled at me and if the approval in his eyes was unsettling, I didn't mind him murmuring, "Good to know."

I wanted us sure of each other. It made everything easier.

"Any online conferences?"

"No. I've got some emails to send, a quotation to work out, some personal banking…just routine stuff. Why?"

"I want to watch you."

He inhales, bright color flooding his face, and gets to his knees, dick still wet. "You said when I'm at work you wouldn't…"

"Wouldn't shove my cock in your face when you were in a video chat, or jerk you off when you were on the phone. Doesn't mean I won't dress you up and watch you squirm."

"Dress me?" he asks dubiously. "I thought you liked me naked."

"Oh you'll be showing plenty of skin, don't worry." 

I wish I could take a photo of him an hour later, but that's one of his hard limits for some reason. I let him get away with stating it and didn't push for reasons, but that's going to change when I've gotten a better feel for him. He can have secrets but not about his limits. 

No photo means I have to settle for mental snapshots and I take enough to fill an album.

Mark's riding a butt plug he took one look at and rolled his eyes. That was before he felt the effects of the lube I used. It's a wicked mix, spiced with ginger and the burn intensifies the more he wriggles. The plug's not huge, no, but he's going to have it in for a long time so it doesn't need to be. By now, it probably feels like a porn star's fucking him. 

He'd probably be complaining, but I'm reading a book and I don't want to hear it. The gag's making him drool, but I like him messy. I didn't get inventive when it came to the harness. It's all new to him. Save something for later. The leather's dark against his skin, emphatic lines slashing across his back and chest as if I've whipped him and he's bled ink. I can smell leather and sweat and sex, potent, arousing. I've used a leather cock ring and sheath on him and the rounded head of his dick, emerging from the leather binding his shaft, possesses an enticing vulnerability. 

He's been hard for a while now, the tap of his fingers on the keyboard erratic. He's making a lot of mistakes, backspacing to correct them with shaking hands.

I haven't even begun to torment him properly and he's ready to slide off his chair and kneel.

Not ready to beg with that broken desperation I crave though.

God, it's been so long—

I pick up a sheaf of papers clipped at the top with a small clamp. Squeeze to open. Let go and…oh yeah. Nice snap. 

"Got any more of these?" I ask, taking off the gag.

He wipes his mouth and runs his tongue around, getting some feeling back, then takes a moment to breathe in and out slowly, getting his voice under control, I guess, before he answers. That's going to cost him. I don't like being made to wait. "There should be a few in the top drawer. Why?"

"Seriously?" I hold the clamp up and snap it again. "Still no clue?"

Eyes wide, he blurts out, "But they're office supplies! You can't use them on me!"

"You're adorable," I tell him and part of me agrees. "Listen, all the expensive toys are fun, but bondage on a budget is too." I get out a handful of the clamps and weigh them in my palm. Really small. 

"Let's play a game."

"I'm working," he protests, but I've been reading what's on the laptop screen and it's garbage. I'm distracting him. Oh well.

"Everyone gets a break. This is yours. When it's over, you can go back to work."

His lip juts out. "You said you'd let me work. You lied."

"No, I didn't. You've got to find a balance. You're my sub and you have to earn a living. So get used to working with me watching. I won't do it often; I've got a store to run. But you need training in being eye candy for me without letting it distract you."

He thinks it over, then nods. "Okay. I'm sorry if I was rude."

"You will be," I promise. "So. The game. Guess how many of these I can fit on your balls." I purse my lips. "I'm going for five on each, so five's taken. Well?"

I swear his hands blur he grabs his balls so fast. "That will hurt!"

So very fucking much. 

"I'm assuming you know the definition of a sadist and understand why I'm not overly concerned about that. Pick a number. And move your goddamn hands."

He moans, the sweetest little whimper, and uncurls his fingers, grabbing onto the arms of his chair as if he's a kid on the scariest ride at the fair. "Uh, three?"

"That's wishful thinking, not a guess, but fine." I put six clamps on the desk and crook my fingers. "Up. Legs spread."

I stay sitting, so his dick's close to my face. God, he reeks of lust. If they could bottle it… I run my fingertip over the head of his cock, then reach around and jiggle the plug in his ass. He shifts his weight and breaths slow and deep.

"How's that plug feel?"

"Like you dipped it in liquid fire."

I chuckle, can't help it, then reach for a clamp. He doesn't scream when I attach it to the loose skin near the base of his shaft, but the strangled cry comes close. He skips back, an involuntary reaction maybe, but I smack his ass for it anyway. "Stand still."

Three on each side and his balls have drawn up, the once wrinkled skin shiny and taut. He's cursing, a steady stream of 'fuck' and 'oh God that hurts!' mixed in with harsh panting. His hands flex, squeezing air, and sweat glistens on his stomach. His erection is the same rigid spike it's been since he sat and felt the plug sink deeper. I could spend hours working him over and I've limited myself to fifteen fucking minutes.

I'm too soft with my subs. Always have been.

Six fit with room for more. I smile. "You lose."

"You…never…said…" He grinds out the words, teeth gritted, then his lips part on a throat-caught groan when I experiment with a clamp just below the head of his cock. I decide there's not enough room for it with the leather sheath there too and go back to his balls, finding the perfect spot for the seventh clamp.

"Never said what?" I ask when he doesn't continue. "What the winner gets? Well, it's going to be me and I get everything I want anyway. What you should be wondering is what happens to the loser. That would be you." I fit the last clamp in place. It's jostled by the ones around it and barely holding onto flesh, but it's attached and that's what counts. I admire the effect. "Nice."

From somewhere he finds the air to snap out a terse, "Thank you."

It kinda rhymes with 'fuck you' to my ear and I sigh.

"Giving me attitude? You have to be the most intelligent sub I've had and the stupidest. Forget the sarcasm and the book-smarts. Stop making this a battle. It's not. I won when you became my sub, but I'm starting to think I got the booby prize."

He strikes his thigh with his fist, letting out some of his frustration. "Fuck you! Fuck this! I'm hurting and it should feel good and I can't _get_ there."

I capture his hands in mine and hold them away from his body. "No. I do the hitting not you. And it's not working for you because your mindset's screwed. You're resenting me for interrupting you and you think I'm bullying you, not dominating you."

He calms a little. I can feel it in the relaxation of his hands. "Yes. Not bullying me, but you don't – you're not being very…" He throws back his head, staring at the ceiling. I know that trick but it doesn't work. Tears can't get sucked back in.

"Kind?" I ask. "Gentle? Considerate? Thoughtful? I'm a kid with a new toy. Maybe I'm being too rough with it, but I'm one big happy smile because I've got it, it's mine. I want to play with it, sleep with it, find out what it does when I press its buttons. I don't want to keep it in its box and let it gather dust."

He ducks his head, not fast enough for me to miss the wet tracks the tears have left, though he's not crying now. "I'm not an it. I'm not a toy. I'm your sub."

"Yeah," I say and stand, pulling him to me for a hug. He goes limp with shock – most of him, anyway – then I reach down and attach the clamp I've palmed to the meat of his ass.

He jerks away, or tries to, but I keep my arms around him. "No. You submit. You offer yourself for me to use. You do it with grace and humility and joy. You don't fucking whine and struggle and make a game into life and death."

I hold his gaze with mine. This is one of those moments where everything can click – or it can crumble to dust. And there's a chance it could just fizzle to a boring truce, but the two of us don't do boring so I don't give it much thought.

"Make or break time," I tell him. "No. Let me break you and then I'll remake you."

"Into the image of your last sub?"

"He failed me, so no," I say evenly. Jesus, this is hard work. Worth it? I'm in two minds after that last fucking dig.

"I'm failing you."

"Nope. You're pissing me off. Big difference. Let go, boy. You're hurting. I've put that pain there. Accept it."

He tosses his head like a horse tormented by a cloud of flies, breathing choppy. His skin's warm against my hands as I caress his back and move to his ass, playing with the clamp, reminding him it's there, a smaller pain than the agony of his pinched balls, easier to bear.

"Breathe with me," I tell him and exaggerate my inhale and exhale for a few rounds until he's in sync with me. It helps, I can tell, but he's nowhere near flying the way I'd like him to.

Then I see it. His eyes close and he frowns, the tiniest furrowing of his forehead, a puzzled twitch of his lips as if he's working out why it feels different. He relaxes into my arms, rests his head on my shoulder and holds on as he shudders through a climax that catches us both by surprise.

He jerks back when he's soaked my pants and shirts with come, clearly mortified. "Shit! I'm sorry."

"For doing what I told you to?"

"For coming without permission. For getting you messy."

"I'll punish you for the first when I actually give the no coming order. I haven't. And as for the mess…" I put my hands on his shoulders and push him down to his knees, the plug and the clamps making his descent awkward. "Clean it up."

"Yes, S--" He catches himself in time and flicks me a rueful glance. "Should I apologize for that?"

I draw down my zipper, getting his come on my fingers, and work my cock out of the slit in my shorts. Not easy when I'm this hard, but I've got plenty of incentive. His lips part eagerly and I decide not to take the easy route. 

"How about you work on not needing to apologize instead?"

"Do you want me to start sucking you?" He wets his lips, eying my cock like it's candy. 

I cuff the side of his head. "Bad memory? What did I tell you to do?"

"Clean up my mess," he says with commendable promptness.

"So why is your tongue not busy?"

He draws a quick breath, then goes to work, starting at the highest point and working down. His spit leaves me as wet as his come, but this isn't really about cleaning and we know it.

I hinder him by jerking off as he works, making him dart and bob around to avoid getting in my way. When I'm ready to spill I grab his hair, hold his face close and shoot. He has the sense to keep his mouth closed. 

"Now we're even," I tell him. "Get up so I can take the clamps off. Break's over. Back to work."

Mark blinks, come dripping off his nose and chin. It looks ridiculous and hot at the same time. "Yes. Thank you."

The missing 'sir' he wants so desperately to add at the end of each sentence is almost audible. 

Bless.

I cuff his head again, gently this time, more of a caress really, and make up for the moment of softness by turning the removal of the clamps from his balls into a nice little torture session, drawing the skin taut before I release each clamp, sometimes letting it spring shut again to recapture bruised flesh. He takes it, harsh breathing, stifled moans, shaking as he holds his position, legs spread, hands behind him.

When they're all off, I make him spin around and I fasten each one to his ass on a whim, forming a circle on each cheek. 

"Going to make nice little bruises," I say. "Like a target on your ass, not that it needs one. An ass like yours is begging to be spanked."

"Yes," he says, "it is. I will if you want me to." The dreamy lilt to his voice makes me want to extend his break but he's got work to do.

I remove the clamps quickly, popping them off and tossing them back in the drawer.

"Shower and take out the plug," I tell him. "Clean it – do a good job – and put it back in my bedroom then get your ass back here."

"For a spanking?"

"Finish what you have to do, then come find me," I say. 

Yeah, he's getting to me. I fucking knew this would happen.

Time to dig deeper, show him more, and if it scares him away, better now than down the road.  
***  
Minor breakthrough, thank Christ. He starts the day by bringing me coffee, then stays with me as I drink it, kneeling, waiting. Last sip drunk, he lifts his hands, ready to take it from me if I want to spare myself the labor of placing it down.

Amused, I pass it over and get a thank you that's quiet, befitting the early hour, without being meek. It's just…well, it's a sub thanking his Dom for the opportunity to serve. Appreciative not effusive.

When I go to piss, there's toothpaste on my brush and it's lying on a counter that's scrubbed clean and gleaming. The towels are dry and hanging over the rail, not in a soggy heap on the floor.

I could get used to this, but will the novelty wear off for him?

He enters without knocking when my hand's on the shower door. Makes sense not to knock. He's mine. Wherever he goes, whatever he does, that never changes. I don't ask permission of myself to walk into a room.

"May I serve you in the shower?"

"Tight fit for two." It is.

Disappointment registers, but he doesn't argue. While I shower he makes the bed and when I emerge, he dries me off, not making a meal out of it or using the opportunity to fondle me without permission. I reward him by tapping his cheek and filling his mouth with my cock when he opens for me. He's good at this. Enthusiasm for cock-sucking is a definite plus and when I pull out so the last spurt paints his mouth, he smiles when I tell him to lick his lips.

 

It's a good start to the day. I reward him, not for his service – that's mine as a right – but the initiative he's taken. I tie him wrist to wrist, flip him over my knee and spank his butt hot, my fingerprints showing briefly before they're lost in the rising red.

He's hard from the first slap, begging to come by the last. Shaking the tears from his eyes with an impatient jerk of his head. I stand him in the corner, admiring him, loving the contrast between marked and unmarked skin, the tremors running through him now and then when I touch him or he thinks I'm about to.

Beautiful boy. I reach between his legs and cup his balls, squeezing and tugging until he's grunting, some discomfort evident but if I gave him the choice he'd stay right where he is and take it. I know. I asked him.  
***  
The night before I send him home, I fuck him. It's not a reward for showing promise. I'm egotistical as the next Dom, but my cock up his ass isn't that big a deal. Cock. Insert in ass. Move in and out. Shoot.

 

If I'm honest, I waited to piss him off. Mark annoyed reveals a lot and I enjoy cracking him open this way. But he was washing dishes at the kitchen sink wearing nipple clamps, a plug, and a red ass and I wanted him. I slip away and get a rubber. Strip down and suit up. Then I come up behind him, ease out the plug, push him forward, and drive inside him with a grunt of pleasure.

The shocked cry he lets out is delicious. He drops the plate he's holding into the soapy water, splashing his chest. His ass clamps around me, then he relaxes, bracing himself for what's to come.

I reach around and find him hard, work him harder. "No coming before me, boy," I warn him. "In fact, no coming without permission."

See? I can be nice. 

"Yes. _Yes._ " So fierce, so hungry for the order and my cock. 

I pump in and out, rough, erratic strokes, glutting myself on sensation. His spanked ass is hot against my skin and he moans, free-falling into arousal despite the mundane surroundings. He'd better get used to this if we stay together a while longer. I'll fuck him when I feel like it. Time and place don't matter if we've got a reasonable certainty of privacy. 

Not much lube, but he's open from the plug and I greased that up well before working it inside his hole. It's enough. I've had subs who got off on the raw burn of a dry fuck, and there's a certain appeal to pushing inside a torturous inch at a time, but I don't like seeing blood on the condom when I pull out. Nor shit, but as the saying goes, shit happens. I'm not squeamish. 

I hold him in place for a few thrusts, making him accept what he's given. He struggles, not much, but it earns his thigh a slap and I don't hold back. Passive isn't what I want, but obedient sure as hell is. He can do plenty to make this good for me without moving, if I don't count flexing a few muscles. And submitting to me is a kick all of its own. I take my hands off his hips, noting the red fingermarks with a flash of possessiveness, and grab a handful of his hair. "Don't move. Not an inch."

He pants out, "Can't."

"I tell you to do something and you can bet the farm it's possible which means you've got no choice."

A tremor runs through him. "I'll try."

"Wrong answer." I yank hard on his hair and muffle his scream with my free hand, fucking him while he's processing the pain. Adds something to the pleasure. "Try again."

"Won't move!"

"Better." I release his hair and capture his hand as it rises to rub away the soreness. "No. You earned that."

He flexes his fingers, white-knuckled as if he's channeling everything into his hands. Whatever works.

I fuck him, a flurry of slamming thrusts, a few leisurely pumps, riding the edge of my climax until I've squeezed the juice from anticipation and it's a dry husk. When I come, I'm as deep in him as I can get, snugged tight, surrounded by heat. 

I stay there for a moment, shuddering, voicing my pleasure with as little self-consciousness as if I was alone, then I pull out. Condom goes in the trash, I wipe my dick dry, and glance back at my boy. If he's moved, I can't tell. His breath is labored, skin flushed, but he's holding on.

I'm feeling indulgent. I reach under and find his cock. Rigid as they get, painfully so. A finger drawn along the underside of his shaft gets me a keening wail and I chuckle. “Poor baby."

"Please," he whispers. "Let me—" He swallows and I wait for him to beg for release. Not for the first time, he surprises me. "Let me kneel to you. Let me thank you on my knees. Let me call you 'Sir' when I do it. Oh God, please tell me to kneel."

I step back, giving him space. "Turn around."

He lowers his head, then I hear him breathe in deeply. A moment later he turns, face to face with me. Jesus. He's crying, red-faced, lip bitten, swollen, puffed up. He's a glorious fucking mess and I want to fuck him again.

I kiss him instead, taking his mouth with my tongue, the hot skin of his lip heating my blood. I drive my tongue deep, tasting him. Our teeth clash and I grab a handful of hair, a handful of ass and do it again and again, kissing the sweetness of his begging words and leaving a sting.

Then I put my hands on his shoulders and push down. He falls to his knees the instant I do with a grateful whimper, eyes dry now, calmed by the kissing. I cuff his head, tangle my fingers in his hair and rock his head roughly. "Do you want to come, boy? And don't give me one of those bullshit 'if it pleases you' answers."

He glances at his cock. "But I do want to please you. Isn't that what this week's been about? Me learning how to do that? And you like seeing me suffer so I can't see why you'd ever let me come."

"Don't put ideas into my head."

He looks up at me and smiles. It's not disrespectful and it doesn't break the mood. It's Mark amused by my joke, no more, no less. 

"I do like seeing you squirm, balls turning blue," I tell him. "But watching you break has its charm too." I nudge his knee with my foot. "Call me Sir when you come, boy."

"Sir." He says it, eyes locked on my face. " _Sir_ —"

Damn near gets himself in the eye with it.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's life gets complicated.

Part Three

Chapter Eleven

“It’s dinner with my dad. It’s not a big deal.” Mark’s voice has gone from casual to strident in a really short space of time. 

I shrug. “So it’s no big deal if I don’t go.”

“It matters to me that you go.”

“And now you’re contradicting yourself. Make your mind up. Big deal or not a big deal?”

It’s a cheap hit and I regret it when Mark screws up his face, his irritation plain. It’s a corrosive emotion, exasperation, etching holes in a relationship. I’d prefer to see anger. It’s a cleaner flame. I raise my hand in a silent apology and watch his face smooth out, understanding replacing his brief annoyance.

“It’s just you getting to meet him. He’ll throw some burgers on the barbecue, make potato salad, get in some beer…it won’t be fancy and the only thing on the grill will be the meat, I promise.”

When I don’t reply he folds his arms across his chest, lips thinning. “He’s been there for me my whole life. Supported me in every choice. When he says he wants to meet you, he’s not interested in splitting us up or prying. Just getting to know you.”

“Why? My relationship’s with you, not him.”

“Jesus!” Mark throws up his hands, pacing the living room as if the floor’s hot and he can’t stay in one place long. “It’s a meal. You’ve got to eat. Might as well be with us.”

_Us._ I really don’t like Mark linking himself with his father and leaving me on the outside. He’s my sub, damn it. And though I’m well aware I’m being an asshole, Mark doesn’t get a free pass on his hissy fit either.

“Stop moving.” He freezes. Good. “Start over, boy. You’re my sub and you have an invitation to deliver. Take a moment to think, then say what you have to in a way that won’t leave my hand itching.”

He glares at me, not ready to behave. “I do everything you want. Usually naked. I spend hours with a plug up my ass, clamps on my--”

“And you love it. Stop whining. Last chance, Mark. You’re my sub. You can talk to me without using ‘sir’ every third word and if we’re having a discussion you can disagree with me, but you’re never going to get away with giving me orders and being disrespectful and you know it.”

“Sub, not slave,” he mutters. “I can have a time out now and then, can’t I? Talk to you as an equal?”

“You’re not my inferior and no. Ever take a time out from being a guy? Or gay? You’re a sub. My sub. That doesn’t change. That doesn’t go away when our dicks aren’t hard or when we’re apart. Mine. 24/7. It’s not just the sex and the games and the pain. It’s who we are. Now ask me properly or we’ll skip straight to the part where I punish you for mouthing off.”

He flinches, processing the threat and, I’d guess, replaying exactly what he’s said and done in the last five minutes. The wince lets me know it’s dawning on him that he’s in deep shit.

He goes to his knees where he is and assumes a position he hates, but I love, forehead on the floor, arms locked behind him. It’s elegantly humiliating when he’s naked, knees spread, and when he relaxes into it I can see a sheet of calm settle over him. Tonight he won’t let go, limbs stiff, resentful.

Of course, he’s wearing a suit and tie, minus the jacket, and in a way the humiliation has to be more intense. He’s not a naked sub to an onlooker but Mark Stanton, aspiring architect, and he’s groveling.

I get off on it, but I’m a twisted son of a bitch. 

“You don’t get to talk until you relax. You don’t get to strip until you talk. You don’t get punished until you’re naked. So concentrate real hard on relaxing because this nonsense has wasted enough of my time as it is.”

He rubs his forehead against the carpet, his breathing heavy, a shudder racing through him. I’ve hurt him, never punished him, and I know he’s curious, even eager to experience it, with a healthy dollop of fear mixed in because it’s been a month now and he knows I won’t spare him.

Training his body to respond to my wishes without hesitation is an ongoing project, not an accomplished goal, but he manages to sink deep enough that his dutiful pose becomes expressive of contrition and submission. It’s subtle. A shift here, a softening there, a slowing of his breath. He’s stunning even clothed, and I remind myself not to skimp on his punishment because he’s gotten me hard. 

I crouch beside him, moving freely. He might as well be in chains. I stroke his hair, trace the curve of his spine with a finger. His pale blue shirt is shadowed with sweat, sticking to skin here and there. I cup his ass, exploring the way it feels though his pants. I don’t often spank through clothes but I slap his backside a few times.

“If your clients could see you know,” I murmur, half-mocking, half-serious. “Next time you wear this suit, you’ll remember I spanked you in it and get hard, I bet.”

He chokes out something garbled enough I doubt even he knows what he means and I spank him some more. Kind of fun wondering what his ass will look like when I peel the pants away.

But it’s his tie I’m interested in. So much I can do with it. I unknot it and slip it free.

“Expensive tie?”

He’s calmed down some with the spanking. “No, Sir.”

“Attached to it?”

“Isn’t it more the other way around?”

I chuckle and tell him to get naked.

Nice tie. It gags him, blindfolds him. I lead him around with it as a leash, tied around his cock, whip him with it, soft, soundless slashes that confuse him because they don’t hurt even a little. Then I cut lengthwise into three and braid the pieces, a knot at each end.

It hurts when I use it then. Not much, but I target vulnerabilities until he’s shaking, pleading. He’s back in position and his shoulders have to be screaming for mercy but he’s got a word if it’s too much for him and finally he uses it.

“Yellow! Please. I need to – my arms are killing me.”

I stop whipping him with the ruined, repurposed tie but I don’t give him permission to move. “Wrong word, boy. Try again.”

He hesitates, then mutters “Red.”

“Yeah.” Getting him to use it is his punishment and a useful lesson because he needs to know it’s not for Sunday best, not a failure. He kneels back and reaches up to rub at his arms, but he can’t do it. I do it for him, working the stiffness out without pity for his discomfort. 

“Hot bath will help.”

He nods, leaning against me. “Got to give you the invitation,” he reminds me, voice thick, drowsy. He’s hard, but I doubt he wants it taking care of. I don’t enjoy punishing him as much as I do hurting him. One’s a duty, the other’s a shared pleasure. No sex tonight. 

“Yeah. Spit it out. And just tell me, don’t make it into a fucking royal proclamation.”

He licks lips the tie chafed at the corners, rubbing soft skin red. “Dad called and said the weather’s supposed to be good on Friday night so if we weren’t doing anything why not come over and help him christen his new barbecue. I said I’d ask you.”

“And now you have. Tell him we’ll be there.” I like reclaiming Mark with that ‘we’. “Anything he wants us to bring?”

“He said if you’ve got a sweet tooth, bring dessert.”

I help Mark to his feet. “You’ll have to do. I don’t bake and ice cream makes my teeth ache.”

“Did you just call me sweet?”

“Certainly not, my little cherry pie.”

I can be funny too.

***

Mark’s dad lives in a suburb old enough to have tall trees. The houses aren’t cookie-cutter and his is big for one man but I guess when his wife was alive and Mark lived with him it seemed just right.

I wonder why Mark moved out, but when I ask him as we get out of my car he shrugs. “Doesn’t everyone want a place of their own? Or with a partner? He’s my dad. It’s not the same. And this way he gets to have a social life without me breathing down his neck.”

“Is he seeing anyone now?”

Mark leads me around the house to a gate in a fence, wood worn gray with weather. “Don’t think so, but I could be wrong. They come and go.”

He calls out as we close the gate and Dave looks up from a smoking barbecue, waving a spatula in greeting. “Hey there. Glad you could make it.” He closes the lid on the barbecue, a giant stainless steel model, and sets the spatula down. His handshake’s brief but firm. 

I hand over my contribution to the event, a bottle of what Mark tells me is his dad’s favorite red wine. It wasn’t cheap, but it didn’t make me wince to pay for it. I like a man who appreciates quality without getting seduced by hype. And no bottle of liquor store wine is worth more than fifty bucks in my opinion.

Dave accepts it with a smile, and yeah, he’s a good-looking man. I can see why he wouldn’t be short on company in his bed. 

He sets the bottle down and offers me a drink. “Beer, wine, something stronger?”

“I’m driving, but I’ll take a beer and make it last, thanks.”

He tilts his head in the direction of the patio doors. “Son, get us both a beer and whatever you’re having. And bring out the bowl of chips while you’re in there.” 

Awkward. Really awkward. I can take it apart in my head and accept that a man giving an order to his son isn’t out of line. Mark doesn’t live here, but it’s still his home on one level and I’m a guest. Dave’s getting me a drink and snatching a moment alone to size me up without Mark watching. Understandable. Reasonable.

Except that’s my fucking sub he just ordered around and Mark’s heading for the door without so much as a questioning glance my way.

Good to see he’s trained to be obedient, courteous, and hospitable, I guess, but I’m pissed and I can’t let it show. Not unless I want to ruin the night before the chair under my ass is warm.

Dave sits at the table and studies me. “I screwed up. How?”

“Excuse me?” I force a dismissive smile. “Not from where I’m sitting. Food smells great and it’s good to meet you.”

“Tell me. Don’t make me guess.”

I sigh. “You told him what to do and I resented it. That’s me screwing up, not you. I’m surprised at myself. I don’t usually have a problem adjusting to my surroundings.”

“I…see.” 

I doubt it. 

I see him working through it. “If you were at a friend’s house, someone in the lifestyle like you, they wouldn’t have told Mark to get you a drink or food?”

“Never.”

“So are you going to punish Mark later for not even hesitating?”

I freeze. If he’d walked in on me flogging Mark it might be a worse situation to be in, but only just. “I don’t punish him for my mistakes and he didn’t make any. Does that reassure you?”

“What’s going on?” Mark’s reappearance saves his dad from answering. “Dad, I promised Martin you wouldn’t quiz him.”

“He’s not.” I smile at Mark. “He’s doing his job and looking out for you.”

Except that’s my job now.

 

Chapter Twelve

The house feels empty without him, but we need the break. Plenty to process for both of us and I know his dad's going to want to talk to him after that hellish meal. I’ve still got indigestion. Kinda freaks me out to imagine the conversation, but Mark's not lacking in brains. Sharing only goes so far and his father's not entitled to details. I don't have anything to do; he's left the place spotless, and I decide to make the trip out to the Saddle again. It's calling me. I went months without visiting and now I can't stay away. Going there without Mark will make easing back into things easier. He's a distraction. A good one, but still.

Sunday night. End of the weekend, with Monday looming. Yeah, that calls for a beer with friends.

I drive over, and the first face I see is Ritchie. Guess I'm not the only one who views this place as home, sweet home because until he catches sight of me, he's staring at the crowded room with a weird mix of contentment and yearning on his face. He's where he wants to be, but he's alone and that's not how he wants to be.

With me breaking the picture into a kaleidoscope, he loses the plot. Stands. Glances at the men's room, then reconsiders. He doesn't want to run from me and going in there could look like an invitation as much as a retreat.

I smile at him as if we're buddies and add confusion into the mix. He jerks his head to the side and studies me. What's it going to be? Will I hurt him? Ignore him? Mock him? He doesn't know, but he knows it's my choice, not his.

I rub my thumb over my fingers remembering how he'd sucked them clean. He's a pit bull to Mark's puppy and I won't lie. I'm tempted. From famine to feast.

I snap my fingers and point at the floor. Color rises in his face, a flood of heat and even from a few yards away I hear the hiss of his breath, see the fractional shake of his head. If he's telling me no, that's fair enough, I suppose, but as I turn away, I hear a thud and when I look back, he's on his knees and crawling.

The room quiets down, no jeering, just an appreciative hum of interest, but a crawling sub isn't that much of a novelty and the noise returns to a muted roar by the time he hits his mark.

I fondle his hair as if he's a dog, petting him, adding in some tugs and slaps I'd never do to a real dog, but this one can take it. He goes with every blow, not fighting me, accepting my touch. He's respectful enough, but a known quality. 

Mark did well this week. I contemplate a reward and tell myself this is for him. That self-deception sizzles to nothing like spit on a hot stone. I want Ritchie. Not as a regular sub or even more than this once, but we've got unfinished business. 

In the men's room, I take him into a stall. They're big, deliberately so. Things happen in here that go beyond the obvious. He's ready to kneel again but I take out my phone and his eyes widen. "Need to get permission to play?"

I pat his face fondly. "You'll wish you hadn't said that, but I'm not sorry you did." Mark answers and when I say his name, I get a happy, startled 'sir' back.

"I'm at the Saddle," I tell him. "Remember Ritchie?"

I hear the brightness fall from his voice. He's not reproachful but careful when he replies. "Yes."

"He's overdue a session with me."

"And you're telling me this because?"

"Not the only one, by the sounds of it. I don't need your permission to play."

"No." The admission's hard for him, I can tell, but it's genuine. "You don't. I'm sorry. I don't know why you called me though. To test me or piss me off?"

"Thought you might like to watch."

He catches his breath. "Watch? You want me to come over there?"

"No. Just turn on your computer and Skype my phone."

He gets it then and I picture him, excited, on edge, curious. 

"Hey!" Ritchie objects. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Rewarding my sub," I tell him. "Educating him, maybe. Got a problem with that?"

I'm ready for a protest, but it doesn't come. Either he gets off on being watched or—oh. Yeah. He plans to show Mark how it's done. Battle of the subs. He shrugs. "I like it rough. Might scare him off."

"It might," I admit. "Better he finds out what I'm capable of sooner than later."

"Still here," Mark says, a touch of acid etching the words. "And I'd prefer to find out without involving him, but you're in charge."

"Yeah," I say and it's to both of them. "I am."

Ritchie nods. "Do it. Don't hold back."

"Are you giving me orders?"

He rolls his head, settling into the mindset he'll need to get through this. "No, Sir. My safeword—"

"We both know you'll never use it so don't bother telling me. Red/yellow will do."

Connection set up, I wedge my phone behind a pipe running up from the back of the toilet and adjust it until Mark's got a decent view of the stall. 

I slip my belt free and double it. "Lose the T-shirt. Jeans around your ankles. Yeah."

I smell his sweat and watch his nipples harden. He's built, muscles and hair, and a thick, long cock he probably doesn't get to use much.

I drape the belt around his neck and slap his chest, working up some red on his skin, solid smacks that echo flat and loud in the small space. He grunts for the first one, hobbled by his jeans. He could look ridiculous in some eyes, but not to me. He's the way I told him to be. He's got the dignity and self-confidence of any sub following orders well.

A backhand to his face has him breathing heavily, swaying toward me fractionally, begging wordlessly for more. I let him have a few more slaps, then I yank on the buckle end of the belt and whip it free. 

"Kneel, hands on the bowl. Time for your ass to sizzle, boy."

He glances at the phone and smirks, thinking I don't catch it. I do. I wait until he's in position, hands in place, then place my boot on the back of his neck and push his face into the water. Lucky for him, it's clean. 

I let him back up a moment later, water streaming off his face, spluttering from his mouth. "Did that wipe the smile off?" I grab his hair and pull his head back, studying him. Before he can answer, I say, "Nope." And in he goes again. This time I hold him in there and whack his ass a few times with the belt. Awkward angle but I don't complain and Ritchie doesn't struggle. He would've known to breathe in second time around.

When I let him up, he shakes his head, water flying, but he doesn't release the bowl to wipe his face. Now that's training and I point it out to Mark. Don't know if he replies. I'm not interested in a conversation.

Ritchie growls out, "Thank you, Sir," the words hoarse, his excitement showing.

"Yeah, you're welcome."

I settle Ritchie down, the worn, supple leather cracking down on an ass that's nicely rounded, meaty enough to give me plenty to aim at. Not enough room to let fly, but I can put some heat in his cheeks and I do. 

This doesn't have to be fancy or planned. He wants pain and a little humiliation from someone strong enough to make it worth his while. I want to let loose with someone who knows the rules of the game and doesn’t need coaching. Ritchie’s never going to interest me the way Mark does, but in the ten minutes or so we’re crammed into the stall, I enjoy him. He soaks up everything I give him, grunting when I hurt him more than he expected but not protesting. It’s Mark who’s biting back words no one listening wants to hear, starting sentences and abandoning them. I can’t spare him a glance, and the screen on the phone’s too small to show me much, but I can hear him clear enough.

I wrap my belt around Ritchie’s neck, letting him feel it, warm, alive, soaked with heat and his pain.

“I can’t do this,” Mark says. 

Ritchie raised his head and sneers. “Then fuck off, baby.”

I kneel beside him and jab a finger up his ass, a dry, brutal push that surprises a grunt out of him. “Don’t talk to my sub without permission.” 

“Don’t fuck him.” Mark’s voice cracks on the words. “Sir—please.”

I remind myself this is a reward for him, but it’s not easy to overlook his nagging. “You wish you were here, boy?”

“I wish you were here.”

“Go my house. Wait for me. I’ll be there when I’ve finished with Ritchie.”

He asks again, his persistence annoying. “Sir? Are you going to fuck him?”

I stare at Ritchie’s ass, striped, bruises showing, a scatter of freckles on one cheek I want to make into a pattern, but they’re a random grouping, no more than that. God, he could take me at my worst, love every savage thrust and scream for me to hurt him more. Gets my balls tight and aching picturing it. And he’s earned it, but I hesitate, caught between knowing I can and guessing I shouldn’t. Fuck. Shit got complicated when I wasn’t looking. Hate it. Fuck.

“My call,” I remind Mark. “Not yours.”

I shove my phone back in my pocket, turned off, leaving Mark blind and deaf.

“You won’t and we both know it,” Ritchie says wearily. “Go play with your pretty little toy. Read him a fucking bedtime story after and tuck him in with his teddy bear.”

I slip my belt free and haul him to his feet. “Want to be there when I do?”

Mark won’t like it. Ritchie’s unsure, blinking at me, forehead creased. 

Me? I’m wondering if I’ve lost my fucking mind.


End file.
